a desolate street in the outskirts of vegas, 7 pm with @forgottendclls
in winter it gets dark too early, the sky black by the time the clock passes six, the feeling of a heavy night closing around you, choking, suffocating the warmth of the sun on skin. it gets cold, even in the desert. it's fifty degrees and the sky is adorned with clouds, heavy, full of an incoming storm. a rare sight, only a few inches of rain ever touching the city of sin.
he's leaving a deal from a side street, his pockets empty of paraphernalia and instead filled with cash; jeans, a light jacket with a hood that hides the edges of his face. the scruff of his facial hair slightly longer than he likes it, the stubble reaching his neck, his hair just touching the back of his nape. he feels, in some moments, like a stranger to the city still. he always has, even despite the years he spent here. new york hadn't felt like home either, the entire country, the continent even, felt as if it rejected the very sight of him. returning to japan wasn't an option, so he was destined to be forever misplaced, lost. there was one moment he felt he belonged, but that was in the past.
he walks, a leisurely pace, fingers fiddling with the stack of cash in one pocket and a packet of cigarettes in the other. he debates lighting one, that sickly euphoric feeling the nicotine can give him, the short sense of peace that can fall catch him. he moves to pull the pack out and the first drop of rain hits the pavement next to him, one moment soft, the next harder, faster. he leaves it where it is, to not get them wet.
he looks out ahead, the one car rolling down the street, headlights cutting through him, then leaving him entirely alone.
then he sees her, he swears he does. just a catch of light, a ray across her face. he would recognize it anywhere, he sees it in his dreams, in his nightmares. every time he closes his eyes.
he forgets himself, for just a moment, pulling the hood from his head as if that would give him further clarity, the rain wasting no time in wetting his hair, his face. he doesn't feel it, doesn't notice it. he takes off in a run to the retreating figure, footsteps hitting wet concrete too loudly. he rounds the corner he watched her vanish behind, a figure lost to time, one he thought he'd left dead, one who's blood had stained his hands and broken his heart.
in the moment he had chosen himself, for the first time, and certainly the last. a pyrrhic victory.
he sees her silhouette at the end of the alleyway, undeniable, and for a moment thinks he must be dreaming, hallucinating. he calls out her name while lighting cuts through the sky. he stops moving, seeing her shape, willing her to turn around. he calls her name again, with the crack of thunder rolling overhead.
