Huntsville's pretty well stable in it's 'weird' stuff, by now, but there's still certain things that are out of the norm for even a town like this, and the sound of an electric bass somewhere in the depths of the woods is certainly one of them. G's not exactly too focused on the oddness of what he's doing, sat with a travel amplifier and his guitar under the towering old tree he'd come to regard as a 'safe' place, strumming absently. He's visibly beaten up, a bruise flowering under his right eye and knuckles busted, palms scraped. He'd apologized to the manager at the Food Market for this afternoon's outburst- catching sight of himself in a mirror was never something he sought out, in this state.
So he'd punched the one in the employee bathroom to pieces, the visual of a monster reflected- his self-image distorted. Worms and rot crawling in his bones even now- it didn't make it any less embarrassing, any less isolating. He barely looks up from his instrument, even as feet crunch through melting snow toward him- the cold's hardly a bother now. "It's late. You should be home." He deadpans, voice soft.
