/lit/ - Literature

Caleb squeezed himself onto the carriage, pressing himself out of necessity against the glass doors and squeezed between about five people one of whom was a short middle eastern looking man with a trimmed black beard and no hair on the top of his head and fleshy and raw pink scars beneath his eyes and on his cheeks. Now and then the man would jerk unnaturally, his head twitching to the side, jerking forward, his shoulder lifting itself up to his ear, his hand raising itself to his nose, his body contorting like a glitch in a video game, alien and unnatural and disgusting to Caleb. Then feeling as though every feeling and thought he had ever felt or thought was welling up behind the dam wall he’d built in his mind and realising then on that train that that dam wall was not made of stone or concrete or whatever but crepe paper and that all those feelings thoughts were now bursting through the dam wall and flooding that train carriage in one single deadly torrential outpouring. So he grabbed the malfunctioning middle eastern man by the lapels of his winter coat and shook him and shook him as much as he could and nobody stopped him but just allowed him to keep shaking the man until he was grabbed from behind by a tall man with strong white hands like bricks.

Is evil the lack of good?
t. privation theory fan