Towering over the fire before him, lighter by his boot on the ground, Eric watched the sinking car take his prey into the depths of the lake and to his final, suffocating breath. T-bird. He was gone, at last. His last words, a Milton recitation. The sound of them echoed in the darkest corner of his mind, that where his torments hid. Where he often heard her screams.

         “If I must contend–” Eric whispered to himself, filled with RAGE and sorrow. Despite the wicked picture of justice painted with the sour colors of the city. The damp, cold image of a former life. “Best be with the best— the sender, not the sent.” A shift of his shape made rubble call out in inanimate pain from under his boots.

                        Or all at once: more glory will be won,  
                        Or less be lost.

         The cold of the cruel night did not hurt the dead man. The rain, the dark, the cold, it felt necessary. And cleansing. Its mantle covered him. A reassurance he’d soon be with her again.

                             ⊰ HEY, ERIC! Y’GOT VISIT. ⊱
                                               The bird cawed from above, a dive
                                                taking the crow to its side & landing
                                                on the roof of the building behind him.

         Attention focused, senses posthumously enhanced, the former musician heard the same torturous screech of pebbles feet away. Perhaps he hadn’t been as cautious as he’d thought. “It is in your best interest to turn around and go back exactly where you came from.” Eric spoke, in uncharacteristic rigidity. Whoever it was, they were not supposed to see what he’d done.