2021-06-28 - Gorilla in the Mist

Leaning against the tall tree, Everett takes another look up and down the quiet, soaked street. It's been almost two years since he found himself in a position like this before. The red ember at the end of the stub of his cigarette glowed brighter while he took another inhale, reached up and took it out of his mouth. A grisly gaze is returned to the house several from him. Squaring his jaw, when the bedroom light turns off, Everett drops his attention to glance down and leaves the smoke in the corner of his mouth to free up his hand. It allows him to turn it on and note the late hour.
Or early depending on your point of view.

"Hey Siri, set the timer for one hour," he says unenthusiastically without taking his eyes off the house he's watching, but keeping his phone sheltered from the storm. Taking the cigarette from his mouth, he ignores the phone's reply, watching the house and trying not to get far wet then he already is. Lifting his head, his eyes narrow to avoid getting drops in his eyes even from the shelter of the awning he's hiding under.
Elm isn't the best of neighborhoods, the limited traffic at this hour tends to leave a man like him alone, if noticing him at all, leaning against the wall that holds up his rain shelter.

Rain.
He returned the stub to his mouth and put his hand on the pommel of his bowie knife sheathed at his hip where it's usually empty. It's not exactly against the law, to wear a weapon like that, not until he intents someone harm or to intimidate. And for that reason, the large knife faces the wall while he looks up to the sky and sees the heavy clouds rushing by overhead. A shadowy shape rolling through the clouds causing the turbulent nimbostratus to shift in its wake.

Come and see.

He had.
He was there, on the beach, down by the boardwalk. It's only a stone's throw from where he works, from where he'd lived. Standing on the same dock, next to the same picnic table, watching the water and getting drenched in the process. There weren't any plankton, there was no algae, there was just angry, black water thundering to the shore. No ships in the distance, no fire falling from the sky.

He'd glanced at the empty picnic table, where she was supposed to be. She'd wanted his hair, but took his cigarettes instead and told him some bullshit about a challenging time protecting a creative woman. Some bull about faith. He scoffs aloud, and not for the first time. It irked him, like his arm that still didn't work. A work-out accident he told them, but truthfully, it'd felt odd since that time he was wearing that furry diaper and cut the stone dragon's neck off.
Dreams are fuckin' weird.

But it still irked him, like an itch he couldn't scratch with his gimpy arm so he overcompensated to prove he's still all that is man. The first dream she called it an it. The next time she gave it a gender. He watched the clouds bellow at the pressure writhing above them a little longer. "I have came," he murmur softly to himself, "and I see. Ya pussy."
Shifting his weight around like an atheist caught praying, Everett finds another comfortable spot as his gaze tears from the heavens and down to the medium sized house with the two car garage. The potted plants be can see on the decking he can see from his position and the rose bushes, among other plants he's going to despise when his alarm goes off.
And assuredly it does after several long minutes. Beeping thrice in quick succession. It begins to repeat itself before he reaches into his jacket and turns it off. Bending down he picks up his cigarette butts before scattering them around so they look less unified; less like someone was standing under an awning and waiting.

Then, with purpose, the large man began his stride to the house up the street. Pulling the leather collar of his jacket higher as though that's all the protection he'll ever need from the weather. There's a glance around, illuminated with a lightning stroke, to make sure his abrupt dash isn't witnessed by anyone he can see and then he's right.
He hates those bushes, their thorns stabbing through his jeans. Poking the hand that reaches down to release the knife's handle from its resting place and pulling it free. He doesn't even look at the blade as he slides it into the track where the screen sits and uses the blade to pry the screen off. A quick lick of his lips as he tests the window beneath to see if it's been locked. He smiles softly when the window begins to slide open. Peering into the room, Everett begins to hoist himself in after sheathing his knife.

He's turned off his humanity before.
He's killed before.