. WHCWASHE .

“My help?”

          She eyes him wearily for half a second, letting out a small
          sigh as she settles with that answer. She should’ve expected
          that, in all honesty. No one ever just showed up for a CHAT
          anymore, everyone always NEEDED something. Especially
          the dead.

     “Yeah, well. I’m sure the dead don’t have much reason to be
     friendly.” She moves on quickly, going back to her coffee as
     she watches him out of the corner of her eye. At least she
     trusted him. He didn’t seem like he’d USE her unless he had
     another option.

                  “ – What do you need help with, then?”

                            Docile eyes averted from her, in thought. Humbled,
                lost, helpless. A strange rush of embarrassment overtook
                the former musician, and despite the presence his darkened
                attire and mime-like makeup invoked, he walked in silence. 

     Now forgiven for being there, in her apartment, without a proper invitation, his former self came through. He existed now in a world of violence and murder, of bloodshed and horror, yet Eric remained. Like an abandoned child, injured and confused, he took to the couch. He was asking too much of her, only a bystander in the nightmare his posthumous state brought. Still, to her misfortune, he had nowhere else to turn. “I’m stuck.” he said vaguely, his voice clear, gentle.

                  “I thought–” after the terror he’d caused, after
                  the lives taken, the blood spilled, he would get
                   to see Shelly again. “– it’d be over.” He didn’t.