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Ask any experienced somebody and they’ll tell you: disaster begins with something infinitesimally smaller, something unspectacular and forgettable. It’s the development of a fissure the size of a fingernail incision. From then on, whether hell breaks loose quickly or progressively, depends on the hand’s stress against the body and the body’s ability to endure.
The water was pretty like this – or maybe it just wasn’t as bad as usual. Depends on how you see things. You could blame the darkness of it on the night and not on the filth, which is what it had in its favor at this given hour. On top of it, moonglow and street lamps speckled the black surface with fragmented reflections of light, swaying alongside the current. It was pretty, maybe; you could call it pretty. But it would be prettier if he were ignorant to the fact there were dead bodies at the bottom.
No figure of speech. There were dead bodies. To be more specific, parts of dead bodies stuffed into garbage bags with rocks inside. Otherwise, they’d float, and the view would falter, as so would the overall smell of their surroundings. But these were drunken realizations for you – or rather, memories coming back to get him. He found it funny in a twisted way; just another thing that distanced him from his companion: his life had been dedicated to getting those bodies inside. Forget happiness and definitely forget love. But don’t forget the corpses.
He shut the door right in the disgruntled (and likely scandalized) neighbor’s face afterwards, turning around and ambling the cream-colored living room as he hummed a made-up tune. Eyes wandered equally about the place as he pursed his lips, finding leather couches, generous artwork, a glass coffee table, a smart TV screen with who knows how many inches and impressive sound equipment that in different circumstances he’d be trying out – looking and finding a, overall, very expensive place. A very good looking place.
A place that, for the record, was not and would never be his own in a million years.
Eventually he turned right, walked across the hallway and peeked his head in through the doorframe.
“These walls are thin and that drill doesn’t help,” he announced with a sigh, strolling in. “I wanted the main safe, but it’s a risk. Should put everything back into place and take the easy stuff before that guy comes back to ask me how much my lesbian porn film is worth.”
You could argue Dio was in the business of excess, and sure enough, he was not himself without it, but more than excess, more than pleasure, Dio was in the business of people. He was in the business of knowing them, understanding them, and reading them beyond the lines and into them, between them, the finer details, then maneuver his way with words and actions to make them feel at ease; make them feel at home. As a bartender, and a little bit as a dealer, that was his daily bread and butter, and just in general, Darian had a knack for making the wandering soul take his hand.
Waves
Thank you to all of those close to me that give me the great gift of connection. I am truly greatful and humbled to experience life with all of you. I find nothing more fruitful than being able to ponder higher thoughts with you. You all make me the person I am so proud to be.
His tongue buzzes with the flavour, dawdling and taking its sweet time to fade away. It’s after a few seconds of the sensation that he clicks his lips and, again, like prodded, turns his head to the window.
London looks as it ever does, unchanging, dripping wet in mock sobriety and dripping wet with an arousal it still tries to endearingly conceal. The buildings murmur to one another as every little human story develops, like film, onto reality. Whether that’s depressing or encouraging in this day and age, everybody has an opinion of, but it’s still London, the London it’s always been, and that’s what matters.
As he glances at the sky, it’s the sudden desire for a change of scenario what spurs him on. As he closes his eyes, it’s the sudden howl slithering its way to the insides of the room what makes him put the pieces together.
Outside the window, the world goes on and on, indifferent, developing, disentangling from the tightly threaded rags everybody gets off on calling fate. Really, it’s just opportunity.
Back to the sound. It had a stomachic quality, that noise. The beginning of a storm, could be, yes, but that could easily as well not be the truth. More than anything it’s got to be a hint. A hint of what, well, see, a hint of a hunger. A craving. A nip of strong desire mixed in with the unswerving layer of death in his throat. It’s numbing down the cognac. It’s numbing down his whole mouth. That morning he woke up to the sound of a whisper, and that afternoon the whisper came back to him. The whole in between starts more to feel extraneous and malleable by nature. The written and unwritten words on the page start to feel inconsequential. The ink could melt away any second now, or disintegrate, taking the words with it.
It’s the sort of perspective only the presence of a heavenly being can bring. Whether it’s here, whether it will just be – he only has a hint. Don’t ask him all the questions.
He’s dropped the snifter, is what he has not noticed. It’s cried out into shards that now glitter the way the London night coat has long forgotten how to. Beautiful, seriously. He steps aside as Margaret has opened the door to find her boss shuffling away from broken glass. Comments and concerns are shared that he’s not bothered to hear, and so he nods away. Clean that, yeah, whatever. He secretly hoped to see some blood, but Margaret’s a clever girl.
Death has never been all that final. There’s always the next chapter, believe it or not. It’s just not as fun as this little trick of His called Everyday. But what does he know? What does Lucifer know about endings? He’s lived longer than most – of anyone or anything, ever. So he knows a thing or two, but this may be one of the topics where he may fall a little short…
Not even the clash of the axe's cutting edge against wood would be enough to quieten the chatter. Oftentimes, he wondered if he should just make a comment, but he was busy enough already, hands bracing the handle as he swung the axe back and then into the log, splitting it in half and dropping to the ground for him to collect once he was done with them all.
It was flattering, to say the at least, and they always flustered when he looked up and granted them a small smile -- li’l bit of Irish charm, perhaps. Sometimes they asked to take pictures with him and once he’d taken his third selfie with a tourist that he realized he’d have this job for as long as he wanted to; he was practically an attraction in and of itself.
“Just look at his arms.”
“Is there somethin’ in them -- ? Is there a bug -- ?” Declan mumbled just as he placed a new log on the tree trunk. He smirked to himself when he heard a gasp and fixed his sleeves back into his elbows -- they kept rolling off. “You’ll be able to light up your fireplace in just a few minutes, miss Williams. I’m almost done.”
When he lifted his chin, he saw her -- and her friend -- positively blushing. It was when he was told he could take his time that he did grin.
word generator prompt: sauce
“Y’ve got this —”
“I’ve got a what - ?”
“This. Still. Let me. —”
The presence of something off at the corner of the lips hindered more a person’s before you ability to speak than your own. This is fact. The napkin feels soft against her skin, the red tint at the tip catching an instant of her attention before her eyes draw back to the man’s. He’s set it back to the table. He’s nodding at her.
“Perfect.”
Ash’s finger brushes against the area to find nothing. Perfect. She has stopped eating for a minute. Thoughts invade her, wrap around her. Within seconds her whole posture has changed. She’s stopped smiling for a minute and she’s looking at him and thinking about the ease behind his gesture and its significance. They’ve been a while at this. So it could mean nothing. It could mean everything. And one’s more likely. His jaw sets and satisfaction fades when he reaches that same conclusion. Nothing, everything. It’s a wishbone with equally terrifying wishes.
“It’s been good, Lloyd.”
“That sounds an awful lot like a fuck off.”
“It is. I was trying to be polite.”
A scoff. “Love, polite ain’t your thing.”
Ash didn’t blink when he stood up. Her eyes went back to the stained napkin.
