After years of failure, ridicule, he was finally ready.
To find out the truth. About himself. About where he’d come from. Where he would’ve belonged.
He turned the dial. Held his breath. Grasped the handles. Stepped on the lever.
The world spun.
A banshee screamed in his ear. Perhaps the wind. Perhaps his own voice.
When vertigo subsided, he swallowed bile. Inhaled. Opened his eyes.
A man in furs crouched near him. Spear in hand.
Boron’s heart flooded with relief and delight.
He knew it!
He was, down to his DNA, a troglodyte.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Troglodyte in 95 words
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