A ghost hides behind the safety of his mask.
A demon cries behind the violence of her gun.
Both tortured, both broken by the same hands.
Destined to find each other in a clash of blood and tears.
Their tragedy is written.
But how do you let go when...
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To feel anything
deranges you. To be seen
feeling anything strips you
naked.
THE SKY
was navy, the clouds orange by the hue of a setting sun. Opposites, meant to reflect the coming of the night.
But, she was afraid of the dark.
Passing under bridges and abandoned alleyways, the silence of her footsteps followed her calculated movements.
England.
Too close to home.
But it's where she was led. Unclear, a trap perhaps, set for the only survivor that mimicked her haste.
She had lost visual of him in the airport but followed the reckless trail he had left behind in his wake. Leading to the city of Manchester. Small compared to other places in the country, but busy, even in the looming darkness.
She did not wear the mask and it felt wrong.
Cobblestone streets and smells of rain. She flinches at the yells of men arising from the pub.
She thought to check, but knew it was pointless, he would not rush to be in the setting of open chaos.
He searched for something else.
Misty streets turned to broken sidewalks, and every house looked the same.
She did not rush, did not stagger. Her boots lay delicate across the pavement. But they freeze at the last house on the lane.
409 in big gold letters.
It was still, with no lights, no sign of life. The place where a ghost would thrive. Her hands open the gate, white, wooden, loud, but still no sound. The bushes wilted, the trees fallen from the autumn season, and her boots stopped on the first step.
The door was ajar, the windows beside dark and covered with aged white lace curtains.
She walks in after one quick glance.
Eerie, but meticulous, with no signs of misplacement.
She walks to the living room, the TV off with blood on the carpet in puddles. Spilled from a man, who lay on the antique rug. Bullet holes seeping through his spine.
