HE’S NEVER REALLY ALONE THESE DAYS–
company is ever-present be it in the form of SHADOWS or MEMORIES ;
some days its hard to tell the difference.
JACK MORRISON sits upon the side of a bed in one more nameless motel, weapons strewn about behind him, eyes forward to where heavy moth-bitten curtain falls around the frame of a large yellowed window ; at his back, a voice, layered upon its own GROWL to craft a CHILLING modicum of speech—
& jack, with a bottle neck held loosely in hand, wrists upon spread knees, a GHOST of whispered pain burning across the scars left by SHOTGUN SHELLS to his SPINE—well, he’s simply trying to recognize if this haunting is REAL or as much a taunting memory as the rest.
“ been a while,
gabriel. ”
HESITATION. It’s a ridiculous thing; a ridiculous, DAMNABLE thing. He isn’t MEANT to delay, isn’t meant to FALTER, but the sight of one JACK MORRISON sitting old and worn and half-defeated upon the side of the bed almost aches more than any phantom pain that crawls along his skeleton.
GUN REMAINS RAISED, AIMED FOR THE OLD SOLDIER’S BACK, but his finger strays from the trigger, mask expressionless AND ALL THE MORE PAINFUL for it.
IT’S ALL A LITTLE BIT TRAGIC, REALLY, how things turned out. Where once there were FLEETING TOUCHES and LINKED FINGERS there now sits nothing but BLOOD and ANGER; time drags on, uncaring of whether or not you’re ready for it.
“ YOU LOOK LIKE SHIT, ” comes gravelly voice, conflicting emotions dripping like tar from wrecked vocal cords. “ YOU’RE A FOOL to let your guard down. ”
