drop dead ; phan

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bass faintly leaked out of the nightclub behind a very intoxicated dan as his feet hazily wandered in the opposite direction. he listened to the sounds of his overpriced, mud-stained shoes hitting the pavement as he stumbled; through his alcohol-tainted vision his feet seeming to move in slow motion. the tiniest flakes of snow landed on his shoulders and chest, melting instantly and melding with his sweaty, sleek body. it was january 11th, and the winter air caused his nose and cheeks to fade into various shades of multifaceted pink; his shivering lips like an icy blue-lilac. it was about 2 am but he would've assumed it to be later, if of course he wasn't so drunk.

river water rushed rapidly below him, though for the most part the river was frozen over by the wintry london weather. the sting of the cold seemed to bite into his numbing skin, icing over his revealed, frosty skin. his eyes glowed bloodshot and puffy; lilac and crimson veins showing prominently under his eyes, and glossy overlays of cherry vodka's aftermath coating his brown irises. splashes of carmine and maroon paint splattered across his shoulders, but he didn't seem to notice. or care.

in one of his hands clutched a bottle of half-empty, iced cherry vodka, which mostly enhanced the burning, freezing feelings that caused his fingers to go gradually numb. with his other hand, his fingers desperately clung onto the frosted-over railings, holding so tightly his knuckles faded to a translucent, monochrome white, although his starlight-laced skin was so fair in color it didn't make much of a difference.

a variety of tangled sentence fragments and drunken questions raced through his fatigued mind, some such as,

who was that guy?

or others more along the lines of,

the most beautiful thing the universe has to offer is the night sky at 3am; looking up and seeing the sparkling array of clustered stars and untouched protogalaxies. not in big cities, of course, as the flickering city lights drain the entrancing web of space. the mystery of what lays beyond what we, as humans, already think we know. but out here, it's surreal. it almost makes you feel guilty to lay eyes upon it, as it almost seems unfair to look at anything else while something as immaculate as it exists.

the clouds; painted by strokes of lacy grays and smoke-tainted off-whites blending into the moon. the transfixing overlay of freckling comets and bright, white stars. most would consider the color white to be plain, untouched, or lifeless, but dan's tangled threads of thought determined it to be the most complex of shades, with its congestive interpretations. maybe it symbolized virtue or morality, or maybe it was a mask, concealing the vitriolic antipathy that lays hidden under a white-toothed smile. perhaps it was rather unprejudiced, not a certain thing or another, or maybe it was a psychological shade that portrayed purpose and the tenacity of life. though maybe it was the fact that it was seen as unvarying that gave it an essence of relation, of an empathetic characteristic.

perhaps white was humanity; after all, humanity is virtuous, vitriolic, unprejudiced, purposed, and empathetic. a painstaking coalition of cruelty and benevolence; the beginning of everything. the beginning of everything? does that even make sense? maybe not, but after all, it is just a color and probably nothing more than a drunken thought.

dan would've been content staying there for hours, staring at the sky with his vodka contemplating things like unimportant matters or upcoming life decisions or odd curiosities that filled his thoughts. or the haunting memories that never really left his tainted memory, his mind keeping them hostage. nothing was more enslaving than his own depression-infused thought process, and there's nothing anyone can do to escape their own mind. his never-ending thoughts filled the silences in between his unsteady, anxious heartbeats, the haunting audio of his past playing on repeat.

this was dan, a depressed, anxiety-laced 19 year old, who wore black skinny jeans and didn't take his meds on purpose.

this was dan, a rarely sober boy with rich parents who talked to himself most of the time, because he didn't have any else to talk to.

this was dan, a likely alcoholic who fell in love with a relentless, drug addicted serial killer named phil.

* * *

philip lester.

philip lester.

anyone who knew anything knew who phil lester was. he was quite the criminal legend; rather infamous really, despite his quiet operations and mysterious persona. rumors flourished in his name, ranging from him being a borderline-terrorist mass murderer to a drug kingpin to an over-glorified stripper. it seemed as anyone you asked would tell you something different; no two people had the same story involving this mystery of a man. but people knew enough to know that if they wanted a murder to unexpectedly occur under unquestioned circumstances, he was the man for the job. he was hired by your average, well-off housewives looking for some petty revenge as well as high paying clients with a unrequited thirst for blood.

it was said that he had a prime spot in london's top dollar drug industry until a few months ago where he had dropped below the radar, and no one's seen him since. there have been rumors, no doubt, but no one seemed to be raving about their brand new inheritances and dead cousins, or how spectacular the strip shows he apparently performed in were.

phil's partner, chris kendall, had also been out of the spotlight for quite some time now. under-the-breath whispers and wonders of phil killing his own partner or simply falling to psychosis ran wildly throughout the murderous streets of london crime.

ah, london crime. what a business.