One Word | H.S.

"Epilogue"

Thank you.

Until we meet again.

~

Pretty Boy's POV | The End

~

Sky.

~

Red's about to miss my memorial.

With the golden tick of the righteous spade dealt by Death himself, I've found myself in the grandest pickle as a certain lunatic is about to have my head. Staring at me as though I've grown fourteen glowing eyes on my very-much-alive face, I'm certain this will be the final photograph in my picturesque album of experience.

She was acting rather insane with her profound speech, bellowing throughout this dingy club with fermented purpose that ruptured my goddamn eardrums.

Trimming the finger-slicing pages of exact definition, Presley Symmes encompasses the title of manic psychotics, looking-glass craziness that pins jailbirds to the tiles of their cell.

By the hollowed circles that disguise themselves as eyes, I'm more-than-aware of her potent shock that lingers between the rigidness of her ticked breathing. The grand artwork of the forbidden clock in the back of an abandoned library, the putters are faint with the dash of persistence.

Livelihood has faded through the cracks of unwarranted curiosity, the crowd attracted by the simmering ruby peering closer as the corner of my lips quirk with a smile. Hope, the ridiculous feeling is waving goodbye as I'm about to be slaughtered.

To feel like Leviticus Smith, an absolute pity.

"Excuse me, sir?" Red's voice lingers to her left, calling for the elderly fuck that questioned her unknown sanity. Shame for him, he hasn't a clue. "Do you see that person with the tattoos?" Our eyes are hooked on the other like a rustic boot to a misguided fishing line, stagnant with posture rigidity and presumed questions.

The grandiose smile on my lips fights to stay shadowed by masked indifference, keeping the oceanic calm that's been a rare jewel in a city of hollowed stars. A week feels like an eternity when your lifeline isn't held between your arms, lightyears away as my anchor lost the weight.

But, she's safe.

We all are.

"Don't have my glasses, but I'm pretty sure." The man's voice is trembling to the beat of my nervous hands, erratic with all pretenses. "Again, miss, are you alright?" He looks to Red, her lips fighting closure as sparked victory keeps them separated.

"I think I'm losing it, but that's okay." Her shoulders hike as I fiddle with the rings on my fingers, scolding nervousness for being so apparent, an appalling gesture I wish to murder. "Wait, no. Look again, please. He's got curly hair, tattoos—,"

Huffing out in long-awaited aggravation, I pinch the bridge of my nose as conjoined hugs weren't in store for loser reunions.

"Red, you're drawing in a crowd. People will start recording this shit soon. If they do—," My eyes peer around to all who look upon, glaring at them as Daddy Glock will make an appearance. "—that'd be a fuckin' shame." Boring fools, to hell.

"I'm sorry, did someone say something?" Red backs slightly, hand ajar in front of her chest as her dramatics should be placed center stage. "It's really weird, but I think a certain ghost has a fucking attitude. And if that were the case, the ghost should watch where he steps next."

To fight with the girl who's undoubtedly captivated the shattered bits of my glassed heart, mended them whole as they'll always break in the future. Though, I've learned to admire such crisp shards as they ignite burning sunbeams at the crevices, flutter the butterflies of ease when the rueful star shines onto them.