- a dead crow (prp emptylifc)
. . . nobody knows anyone. strangers come and violate you. strangers come and cut your heart out. strangers come and take your blood. good god, who were those men? . . .
the night is dark and littered with dirt, with glass, with scowling faces, just as it always is. cold air stretches the city, suffocates it. hands shake. breath fogs. also note -- the stairs to the right floor of their building are everest. his lungs burn, vision blurs, fingers fumble desperately for his keys. in his pocket, please, god, he didn't drop them. say he didn't drop them.
he didn't. that's probably the last of his good luck right there, no doubt. he catches himself leaning heavily on the wall as he unlocks the door, catches the world spin around him, catches -- a lot of things. focus, mark. focus. there's this whine of a breath he doesn't realise he's letting out until he's inside and shutting the door behind him, shaking.
mark cohen, in short, looks like shit. there's a cut on his forehead that must not be too old, because there's blood that's dripped down his face -- almost into one eye, notice his glasses are gone -- and while his lip bleeds considerably less, it's definitely bleeding. the idea of stepping inside without anything to lean on is an impossible one, so once the door is locked he has to steady himself against it a second.
there's a place where his coat's bloodstained, just one sleeve, but whatever it is is nearly obscured; he's been clutching his camera tightly like someone's going to tear it away. (there's a weakness in his knees, but he can't-shouldn't let himself sit down or fall.)
the violent trembling is accompanied by silence. he's hardly even looked up from the space between the wall and the floor. something's gone wrong. something's gone very wrong.
