it doesn't entirely make sense but aH that's kinda the point. honestly i'm not entirely sure bc it's almost 3am n it's a reflection of sleep deprived messiness ya feel. there's probably a lot've tense n grammar mistakes too whoops. but woo yeah. ok i briefly edited bc capital letters but im too lazy to properly proof read so whoops rip @ ur eyes. ••• Black boots make their way through the city streets. Dark lace - long and tattered - serves as a reminder of his youth for the ageing man. The skin around blue eyes crinkle; a wry smile. The lace? an essence of his past. A bitter memory, concealed under medicinal fog. A birthday present, but from which birthday his mind does not reveal. He pauses. Breathes in, out, in, out— following the structure: basic survival mechanism. The bemused smile is yet to fade, cold air escaping through the cracks in his charred mouth. A cough escapes, then another. He wonders how long it will be before he coughs up his lungs — after all, it is family tradition. His skin itself is pale, decorated in jagged and circular scars with the occasional cat-like scratch. Dark red, a stark contrast to his pale watery eyes. Gaunt. Small, dark hairs sprout from his calloused chin, wiry and unkempt. His hair, a blend of premature grey and greasy brown, matts together in an animal-like fashion and hangs in dry clumps over thin shoulders. Of course, his frailty is not visible, hidden behind layers of patchwork and heavy material which grip bony shoulders. He knew better than to show weakness whilst in his situation; weakness was a disease in which he already had plenty. However, looking closely you can see how his cheek bones protrude, the bones weathered. Old. His eyes are sunken, glassy. They're large eyes; eyes which have seen too much. One pupil moves a little slower than the other in mismatched harmony. They're bloodshot, to no surprise. Whether from a lack of sleep or overuse of other things wasn't even certain to the man himself. Beneath his eyes are bags; so many bags he puts the local drunks to shame. He wearily reaches up to rub against the dry skin, thin fingertip scratching the skin as if he were a dog chasing a persistent flea. He chuckles yet it's a hollow sound. Unconvincing. Honestly, for all he knew, it could be a flea. After catching his breath, he continues to walk. He slips through back allies, moving with the precision of someone who knows the streets, who grew up within them — a part of the streets and the culture it brought always lingered inside him, tempting him to return. Another mistake. The noise, the cars, the screaming children, it all seems to fade away as he continues to walk... He swallows. Once, twice, again. He marvels at the ease, despite bitten finger nails scratching at his arms longingly. Still, he'd come this far, he didn't want to risk falling back again. Old habits die hard. Large eyes gazed at the white round objects in the palm of his hand. This was different, right? Swallow, again, swallow— another basic coping mechanism, coming with the same amount of ease as breathing. If not more, he contemplating, regarding his lungs with a nauseous sigh. The man with the heavy patchwork coat continues to walk. He stumbles once, then twice: disoriented flailing as his peripheral vision begins to blur. A tusk reaches out to help him, the grey material latching onto his arm. He nods a smile of gratitude, not questioning the smiling elephant in a tiny tie. His vision flickers, multiplies and pulses; the man staggers on. His feet pound at an unsteady beat, fingertips shooting out from time to time to prevent the dizzy figure from falling. Muttering under his breath, he continues to walk— "It's my job; I belong here. They can't shut it down." "No, Mom, look it's great! New York is great. It's fine, really. I got fired, but I'm working at this, er, new law firm." "This is a joke. Heck man, they want the flat—" "Tea, plea-" the rather deranged man continues to mumble to himself, occasionally pausing to let out a torrent of curse words. The back of his head pulses, but it was out of rhythm. It felt wrong. He lets out another throaty cough: another reminder of the consequences of old habits. Still, the only reason for stopping had been the lack of income. But then, hadn't that been that entire reason of starting? The man pauses, momentarily dazed, before erupting into another coughing fit. As his walk soon continues, he passes a block of abandoned apartments, each one much bigger than the last. Normally he would have let out a bitter laugh about the irony, made a remark about a corrupt government and continued with his day. This time however, he viewed the vibrating pink and grey building and decided on impulse to wander inside. His father had always said his impulsiveness would be death of him. But his father was 12 feet underground; who was he to take advice from? So, flailing almost desperately, the man let go of his sanity. He was battered, beaten. He wasn't middle class, white or particularly known. No one would notice the disappearance of a lonely old man. He'd been a simple shell of his former self for the previous decades. Without much caution, the man stumbles over dirty needles littering the floor, crunching under the glass of broken bottles. The room he was in currently was masked in debris, bar the odd item (a moth eaten lamp shade or disregarded stool leg) showing what life the room had once held. Bitter eyes regard it now: the dents in the walls, the broken needles, the smashed bottles, the spray painted alcoves. He eyes it all with disdain. Sharp fingernails tap against his shoulder blade. The man swung around, bloodshot eyes widening in alarm. His pupil's dilate as they met another set of eyes: red eyes. A masked figure stares back at the crippled man. Maybe he should have been afraid, maybe he should have left. Instead, he smiled. "A-And wha' do I-i owe you the pleasu' of?" He stumbles over his words: whether it was a result of the drugs, last nights alcohol or plain lack of teeth was unknown. The masked man pulls out a knife, but the man in patchwork was unable to focus where from. Instead, he watches the plastic head which others may have been horrified by with childish delight. Metallic glints, arching dangerously. "I think you know what." And with that, the towering masked man plunged the knife into the homeless man's side. ••• Two kids, maybe eleven or a little younger, peer through the cracked windows. Their dark eyes were wide in disgust — wanting to recoil but too afraid to move. They watch as the homeless man erupts into an onslaught of hacks and coughs before falling to the floor of the solitary room in a defeated heap. The children watch as the mans' lungs collapse, leaving him to fall alone to the tattered floor, calling out to something. Someone? Yet the room was as empty and lifeless as the man now sprawled within it and had been that way for years. Shaking, they dial 911. ••• lmao im too lazy to proof read. ill probably just post a few other short stories here later bc yeah.
kinda just wanna record this somewhere before i edit it n change parts, n not sure if anyone will read it here anyways so oh well. if ya do then sorry bc tenses are fucked n I haven't proof read at all so it makes little sense lmao. it's just for comparison for when it's done rlly¿ idk man. •• One leg bounced rhythmically across the tiled floor. It tapped relentlessly - urgent movements resulting in a steady echo - as if it longed to escape the claustrophobic waiting room and flee of it's second-hand shoe. Black material peeled beneath cheap lace; scraps of dark paint lingering forlornly as they fell from each battered shoe like fallen soldiers. The man hastily pushed the army of chipped remnants under his plastic seat, adamant on concealing them from watchful eyes. Yet the cuffs binding his ankles made the situation difficult. "Mr Ace?" A shrill voice rang through the waiting room. Silence followed. He swallowed. His gaze flickered to the man in uniform watching him, regarding him with beady bird-like eyes. "Mr Ace?" At this, the figure raised a hand. At least, as high as his handcuffs would allow. "Officer Carter is ready to see you. Right this way please—" ••• He sunk back in the seat opposite the Officer, who was leaning leisurely upon a desk overflowing in detailed paper work. The older man scribbled something across a hidden (or at least intended to be hidden) clipboard. A small smirk rested across the Officer's mouth. He couldn't go back. He knew that. Another day behind bars? Impossible. Yet could he tell the truth? His thoughts raced as he took a gulp from the water he'd been given at the start of the interview. "Mr Ac— Frank, we're tryin' to help you by reviewing the case. The evidence, as you were 'nformed, seems less reliable due to, ah, certain circumstance. But we do need to know... Who gave you the box?" The thick accent questioned, tone spiked with an emotion that Frank couldn't quite place, "in you' own time, hm?" Frank's face contorted in indecision, unable to eye the officer as he closed his eyes, mind recalling the haze of that night. The words burned in the back of his throat. ••• Music pulsed through the flashing room, industrial blaring loudly from an overcrowded stage. He tried to push through the manic crowd, flailing arms wildly in a drunken stagger. A sea of bodies consumed him. Bodies pressed into him, surrounded him, suffocated him — he sunk. Clawing at the floor with desperation, people swarmed above him. His eyes flickered like a broken bulb as darkness crept over. His fingers itched, the familiar impulse. Fingers trembled as perspiration shone from his dazed head. He attempted to rise yet was pushed back by walls of people. Abruptly a figure clouded his vision: a mask was pulled over their face, yet familiar green eyes stared back. A rectangular packet lay temptingly in their outstretched hand. "Do it," the masked man screamed across the heavy music. Their eyes danced, black pupils growing larger by the second. The familiar eyed character thrust the packet again, waving it forcefully in front of Frank. The pyromaniac complied. ••• Officer Carter met his eyes. "Go on," he urged. His green eyes watched Frank with enthusiasm, one hand pushing the door to a close with a quiet bang. The lock clicked. Frank ran a hand through his wiry hair, the metallic silver digging into his frail wrist as he did so. He knew it, he was so sure, he just couldn't put a name to the masked face. But those green eyes... A growl of frustration escaped chapped lips, as if he were a caged dog, and finally he raised his head to meet the officer's in resignation. But then it clicked, just as the lock had moments prior. "Wha—no, wait," his forehead creased together. "Y-you?" He choked momentarily on the water he had been finishing. The green eyes of Officer Carter Ace crinkled, a glint of amusement sparkling in the green abyss. "Took you long enough." Frank simply blinked in confusion. "You see however, if the truth comes out, I lose this job. I almost did: pesky investigators. But now, perhaps we could come to an agreement..." Officer Carter mused, more to himself than Frank, his fingertips absentmindedly twirling an empty packet of pills. Frank continued to stare at him and watch dumbfounded. The Officer's eyes flitted between Frank's empty glass and the empty packet of pills now sprawled upon the desk. He smiled sadly. "I believe the interview's over," he remarked, more to himself than to his paling Nephew.