guide me towards salvation | tinsley/goldsworth

chapter one

Tinsley eyes the small farmhouse from where he's standing behind the worn down looking white fence. For the first time, it sinks in to him that this was going to be home for him now. It looks like it has seen better days; the paint is all but chipped and faded, some of the windows are smashed and broken, and it probably isn't equipped with electricity. But the expanse of land that surrounds the house, though it is not as vast as he would like, looks fertile and rich. Not that he'd know shit about farming. For a moment, he imagines himself growing little carrots and potatoes. He can't decide if he likes it or not. It had cost him every penny he had in his bank account to purchase this spot of land in Virginia.

It's just the way he likes it. Nothing and no one to bother him. The town is quiet. Undisturbed.

How wrong he was.

When Tinsley steps on the porch, the wood under his feet creaks dangerously. Up close, the house looks even shoddier but not completely uninhabitable. He reaches for the keys in the back pocket of his denim jacket, balancing the box he's holding with his propped up leg. When he opens it, the inside is almost bare and neat, but filthy. It was an open space; the kitchen thankfully has a sink and a counter, though caked with months worth of grime. There are also shelves, also barren. In front of the kitchen counter is a sturdy-looking wooden table, no chair. In the middle of the room, next to a door (which, if he's guessing correctly, the bedroom) is surprisingly, a brick fireplace. To Tinsley's left is presumably the living room, which is void of anything except for dust and a water stain on the floor.

He dumps the ratty, old duffel bag filled with clothes carefully from his shoulders, still holding on to the box he's currently clutching in his arms. He drops it onto the considerably cleaner side of the room near the doorway. Tinsley walks towards the bedroom, unlocking it, and is surprised that there's a bed. It's frayed, with its wooden bed frame (matching the aesthetic of the interior of the house) and is probably too short for his long limbs but it will have to do. He gingerly places the box on the wooden floor and lifts the mattress up, checking for any weird, disgusting stains and sighs in relief when he finds out there are none.

That afternoon, he cleans the floor, discarding any debris and brushing the walls clean off webs and dust. Whenever there are scraps of tools or any useful thing he finds lying around, he tosses it at the small shed outside the house. The next thing he clears up is the bedroom, which is fairly easy since there's not much to clean. He dumps his things in the small closet, and some of his more personal belongings. He moves on to the bathroom, scrunches his nose at the acrid smell, and decides that he would face it tomorrow (with some bleach, maybe.)

The next day, Tinsley decides to visit the town. He buys hand tools that he doesn't already have, mostly keeping to himself and avoiding any eye contact with the store's employees. He exits the hardware store and spots a small animal shelter just right next to it. He pauses. A memory of ginger fur zooming through the room, and echoes of laughter suddenly jolts through him. Tinsley shakes his head and moves on, strides to the direction of the small grocer across the street. When he opens the door, the man behind the counter immediately gives him a big smile, chirping 'Morning!'

He tries not to grimace as he nods back to the other man. He's a good few inches shorter than him. He's thin and lanky, with dark hair and even darker tapered eyes. He quickly walks to the direction of frozen goods and then, alcohol. He carefully chooses the items he puts on his basket, minding his budget. He really needs a job soon. Satisfied, he goes back to the counter and is greeted once again by the cheery cashier. Tinsley doesn't say anything, instead opting to look at the window rather than in front of him.

Nevertheless, the man still strikes up a conversation. 'Hey, I haven't seen you around here.'

Tinsley forces a smile. 'Just moved.'

The man brightens, 'Oh, where from?'

'How much?' He says instead, all politeness.

Out of the corner of his eyes, the man visibly deflates but still maintains a smile as he scans the items and says his total. When finished, he bags them up. Tinsley takes his bag and turns around to leave. He probably came off as rude and he feels a little bad. Just a little.

When Tinsley gets back to his little farmhouse, he finally gets the chance to stock up his mini-fridge, finally eating a real meal instead of coffee and crackers. After, he starts working on repairing the splintered windows and creaky furniture. The bathroom is a more arduous work, taking half of his day but at least he feels comfortable enough to take a shit in the toilet now.

He looks around and thinks to himself that this isn't such a bad idea.

That night, he crashes his weary body to bed, though it's short-lived because he has a nightmare.

It's not so bad, at least not anymore. Since last year, he's been plagued with blood-soaked night terrors. The first couple months were so bad that he had gotten complaints for waking up his neighbors with his screaming. As it goes on, the nightmares became the new norm for Tinsley.

It was the same one every time.

The nightmare starts out pleasantly at first; to her dancing slowly to soft music playing from the record player, her dark curls bouncing as her heels glide through the floor. Then, a deafening shot. She turns to Tinsley with her mouth parted and her green eyes, the light behind them slowly fading. Her soft hands are clutching the blood soaking her red dress. Tinsley tries to walk towards but his legs are frozen. He tries to run but his whole body solidifies.

In his nightmares, blood starts pouring from her mouth as she falls to the ground. In his nightmares, she would always say one thing before she dies.

His name.

She says it so delicately, so reverently . It almost makes him think he has nothing to do with her death. Almost.

In nights like these, he would wake up screaming himself hoarse, stare blankly at the ceiling, light up a cigarette, and lose all hope of going back to sleep again.

Clearly, fate has other plans.

He's on his third cigarette, massaging his aching temple when he hears a thump from outside. Tinsley looks up, startled when he hears a significantly louder crash, followed by a string of expletives and a drawn out groan. He gets up from his bed, snuffing out his cigarette with his bare feet. Creeping to the living room, he snatches the wrench on top of the dining table. Tinsley opens the door as silently as he could, thanking himself for fixing the once-creaky door and his wrench-turned-melee-weapon. Cautiously, he lowers the wrench when he sees what... or rather who is outside.

A clearly injured man is sitting on his porch, trailing blood everywhere. His eyes are shut, groaning as he clutches his bleeding side. He looks dangerously pale. Tinsley feels strangely awkward just standing there so very casually, he says, 'You know, you could have just knocked.'

'Jesus fucking Christ!' The man yelps, startled. He tries to stand up and instantly falls over, howling in pain. In normal circumstances, Tinsley would have found that hilarious but the man obviously seems to momentarily forget he was bleeding to death. He winces sympathetically instead.

The man looks up at him, blinking his dark brown eyes at him, 'I thought you were a ghost,' He wheezes out pathetically.

'Thanks,' Tinsley replies dryly, 'Come on, get up.' He says, helping him get to his feet. He knows how idiotic this looks, letting a complete stranger into his home but Tinsley is far too tired to think straight.

He only hopes it doesn't come back to bite him in the ass.