night falls like a sharp edge , cleaving forward through the swollen throat of the day ; spilling shades of weary cobalt & violent indigo across this bloated corpse of an old suburbia. houses stand hungry ; doors yawning like mouths propped open & rigged to bite. this place is a love - letter to death , blood begetting blood for the amusement of the dirt. his boots beat against the pavement like a reprimand. like a scorning. like a wild animal that bites off its own leg to escape the trap. he can still hear them. they're not far behind ᅳ just the distance between their own blood - lust and some sick satisfaction.
he rounds the corner , slinking out of sight & into the shelter of moon - lorn shadows as he drops into a low crouch. the tall grasses shift like snakes to accommodate him. the shed ahead looks promising. he'd lost his axe to a set of ribs & a burst of blood , not having enough time to free it before he had to run. he could use some kind of replacement ; some kind of anything.
calloused hands pressing against the sill of splintering wood as he vaults through the window. boots land on cold concrete with a quiet thump & the flair of an old ache in his right knee.
❝ oh shit ᅳ ! ❞ he curses , every nerve an electric collection of simmering explosives he levels his revolver at @0shit. just his goddamn luck.
