2019-09-13 - Mac the Knife

Wide innocent children eyes looked up at him.
A tug on fabric brings the child closer, falling to a knee. Adolescent boy, trying to whisper, breathless, "She's pretty. Are you going to marry her?"

The child's hand is so small. Uncurling to show the small palm upwards. Carefully, with sausage sized forefinger, tracing three letters on that infant's hand.

A child's giggling, the cuddle.
A feminine caught breath to the right. The sound of rain being blown on the wind while turning towards that breath. The colors fade. Shadows stretch forward like prowling beasts.

Everett wakes in a startle, several cans making a short clatter from the single mattress to the floor in the dark loft over the Sweet Retreat, marginally illuminated from the variety of rainbow colored lights off Boardwalk, shining in from obscured windows. Music continues to be emanated from his phone near his crumpled pillow.

But if you could heal a broken heart
Wouldn't time be out to charm you?

Brushing his wide hand over his face, in an effort to tame back his mane, he pulls back a wet hand and looks at the clear, glossy tears on his palm. Bewildered.

And then he remembers.

The nearest can is shaken, found empty, and just as quickly discarded. Finding his pants, he pulls them over, suspecting there might be cigarettes at least. But the first thing he finds is his knife. It slides from the sheath without a sound, and Everett examines the edge. With both hands, he holds the implement, studying the pencil-thin line where he hasn't painted it black. His imp makes him wonder, how sharp is it. The Imp of the Perverse makes a terrible suggestion. Army green eyes look at the back of his wrist. For a second, for a long second, Everett considers. The irony of Slash having his guitar solo is lost to the giant man.

And then he remembers.
Hard eyes narrow and Everett stands, picking up his pants, with an intention to put them on, with the hand not holding the Bowie knife.

Leaning against the tall tree, Everett takes another look up and down the quiet, dingy street. The red ember at the end of his cigarette glowed brighter while he took another inhalation, reached up and took it out of his mouth. A grisly gaze is returned to the dark house across from him. Squaring his jaw, Everett drops his unfinished smoke with the others he's left at the tree's roots, stepped, and twisted while his head lifted up and his held breath brew smoke skywards. He made a mental note to pick those up later.

Wouldn't do to have his DNA at the scene.

With purpose, the large man began his stride to the house across the street, his right hand slipping down and unsecuring the snap that keeps his blade in its holster at his hip. Every step further rising his determination, making his gaze grow hard; steel-like. Turning off his humanity and the last year with practiced ease, a killer's footfalls closely followed, then overshadowed his own until they were the only sound on the pavement.