birds typically travel in flocks, he’s fairly sure of that. which is what draws his attention to the little feathered beast when it croaks and nothing else calls back. it’s WEIRD, ennit? in his business, weird isn’t usually good. weird is usually an omen of shit about to hit the fan, a warning to grab himself an umbrella before it does. in this case, it’s an omen of another person close by, and someone who fits the whole bloody list of things that set teeth on edge. especially when they know his NAME.
“ was gonna ask you the SAME THING, mate. halloween store’s closed, s'fuckin’ june. give the ‘aunted ‘ouse make - up a rest, yeah? “
Long, bloodied leather coat echoes his movements as he turns ( along go the six-stringed instrument strapped around his shoulder, and the twelve-gauge shotgun underneath ), painted brows arching above a piercing hazel gaze. Head tilting, appreciating the man’s words.
⊰ IDIOT ⊱ — the bird hissed from above, frustrated, scolding Eric for wasting time.
“Apologies.” he speaks in a low baritone, eloquent pronunciation, rhythmic syntax. Much like a poet in mid recitation. Eyes close as his head bows in a gentle nod. It seems, he’d startle the magician. “I assure you, I meant no harm.” boots approach the asphalted sidewalk. One down, message sent, three to go. The nightmare had begun – in a blaze of violence, blood, death and vengeance. A deserved carnage to come which could not be stopped. Eric sat for a moment, on the vile of wet, poisoned ground, where the rain felt so cleansing.
⊰ NOT TO HIM ANYWAY ⊱ the black feathery creature caws, remaining ignored.
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.
