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Description
A bottle shattered on the concrete floor, the innumerable bronze shards glittering under the stark light of the lamppost. The pieces formed rivers as mighty boulders do when blood flowed around them and over them in an ever-widening ocean. A sharp intake of breath sounded muffled in the deserted street as a man clutched his bleeding hand to his chest, diverting the flood and soaking his shirt with it instead. He ducked as another bottle sailed through the air like a grenade, exploding upon contact and showering him in slivers of alcohol. Illuminated in the doorway, a woman raised her arms above her head and let fly a box, striking the man squarely on the chest.

"And stay out!" She screeched, bent and twisted like a traffic accident. The door felt the full force of her fury as she slammed it into its frame, the sudden blast of noise making the man on the street jump and fall over, laid out on the ground and still. Take a piece of chalk to his frame, for there was very little else the world could offer him. Black lashes squeezed out tears and rolled them down his chiseled face, stopped by the stubble on his chin. His crooked nose twitched as he snorted, blinking away any rogue tears. There wasn't even a flicker of thought in his eyes when he pushed himself up, glass burrowing its way back into his palm, falling away from his cheek like so many discarded treasures; drip, drip, drip, more sauce for the feast. His knees unfolded next and finally, he was back up on feet that had carelessly forgotten how to hold a man. He staggered forward, reaching out for the lamppost and pressing his jeweled hands against its unforgiving surface. Crimson stains steadily grew on the post like the blush of a schoolgirl, and just the same, the man had no interest in her. There was more life to be lived in standing, sweeping aside scraggly locks from eyes that shimmered with summer's golden treasure.

The bare electric light lay waste to him, raw and unflattering towards his sunken features and the deep-set wrinkles in his skin. When experience scarred a man before age could, he was greeted with narrow-slit eyes and cold shoulders. Such men were dangerous; they had very little to lose, and so much more to win. A grimy coat was settled neatly on his shoulders and he tugged it closer, turned up the collar as his breath disappeared in clouds before him. The man leaned down but gravity was a tricky thing, very nearly tumbling him feet over shoulders and then some. His bleeding palms grasped the box's edge tightly, its wooden walls pockmarked with his blood as he pressed it stiffly to his chest. He breathed smoke one last time and disappeared from the lamp's oppressive gaze, lurching across the darkened street on feet that disagreed on where to go; feet too stubborn to ask for directions.

Sunlight blinked, his thick mop of hair throwing the world into further shadow. A will-o'-wisp of a thought led him on, past Chinese restaurants, down street corners, away from the banshee shriek of red-and-blue lights. A gentle flush across his face gave him pause, his mode of transportation giving out and claiming an empty tank as he slid down a brick wall, the box still held rigidly against his chest. He cradled it in his arm and pulled at his shirt's collar, sweat beading down the curves of his face and meeting the same abrupt end at his stubble. Small billows of smoke floating away from him like a chimney in winter, but he felt like the fire that blazed within it, heavy and blistering. The gold of his eyes rattled and he took a deep breath. Pieces of glass fell to the ground in a musical trill as he clawed the brick wall for support, staggering to his feet. Turn the key and keep on down the road; he didn't know where they were going, so they had to get there eventually.

The other wraiths he passed on the street took no notice of him, locked in their own decadent pleasures and sins. What was another brute to add to their fattening stock, their ongoing infection of the dominant population? The haggard holes he used for eyes held a pool of sunlight in them, and they were clouded by streaks of coagulated dirt he called hair. His step swayed to a music no one else could hear, harmonies and discords all along the pavement as humanity was herded along; Tuesdays they went left, Saturdays they went more left. The box remained in his arms, protected in a flesh-and-blood cage of his own making. Dreams, laws, and cages; they are all meant to be broken.

The round cylinder pressed a metal kiss against the stubble of his chin, open-mouthed and willing. A young face loomed behind the smooth shape of the gun, but those eyes held nothing, just a downward gyre of hunger and need that's depths could not be breached, not even by the man's sunlit eyes. "Give me the box, old man." He wheezed, lips burned and scratched by so many bottles and burning embers. The scratch in his voice scored wounds in his words, rattled them from his throat so they were spit out with the bile and blood of his intention.

The jewels in his hands sharpened, the gems buried on the side of his face glimmered. "No," he replied. He hadn't answered the question. Then again, the man hadn't thought it was a question; he hadn't cared to guess what grammatical label it preferred. The gun bit down on his flesh, forcing his neck to crane backwards, the blue cracks in his skin pulsing.

BANG.

The sunlight dimmed, his jeweled face cradled by the concrete as the gun's fatal kiss oozed in tender and loving devotion. Above, those empty eyes flared with the dying light, the shadowed corners illuminated for one terrifying second; one horrifying moment in which the horrors were real. He fled back into the darkness, yanking shadows back into his eyes, back into his heart.

The wooden box remained with the man, but the man did not.

Description
A bottle shattered on the concrete floor, the innumerable bronze shards glittering under the stark light of the lamppost. The pieces formed rivers as mighty boulders do when blood flowed around them and over them in an ever-widening ocean. A sharp intake of breath sounded muffled in the deserted street as a man clutched his bleeding hand to his chest, diverting the flood and soaking his shirt with it instead. He ducked as another bottle sailed through the air like a grenade, exploding upon contact and showering him in slivers of alcohol. Illuminated in the doorway, a woman raised her arms above her head and let fly a box, striking the man squarely on the chest.

"And stay out!" She screeched, bent and twisted like a traffic accident. The door felt the full force of her fury as she slammed it into its frame, the sudden blast of noise making the man on the street jump and fall over, laid out on the ground and still. Take a piece of chalk to his frame, for there was very little else the world could offer him. Black lashes squeezed out tears and rolled them down his chiseled face, stopped by the stubble on his chin. His crooked nose twitched as he snorted, blinking away any rogue tears. There wasn't even a flicker of thought in his eyes when he pushed himself up, glass burrowing its way back into his palm, falling away from his cheek like so many discarded treasures; drip, drip, drip, more sauce for the feast. His knees unfolded next and finally, he was back up on feet that had carelessly forgotten how to hold a man. He staggered forward, reaching out for the lamppost and pressing his jeweled hands against its unforgiving surface. Crimson stains steadily grew on the post like the blush of a schoolgirl, and just the same, the man had no interest in her. There was more life to be lived in standing, sweeping aside scraggly locks from eyes that shimmered with summer's golden treasure.

The bare electric light lay waste to him, raw and unflattering towards his sunken features and the deep-set wrinkles in his skin. When experience scarred a man before age could, he was greeted with narrow-slit eyes and cold shoulders. Such men were dangerous; they had very little to lose, and so much more to win. A grimy coat was settled neatly on his shoulders and he tugged it closer, turned up the collar as his breath disappeared in clouds before him. The man leaned down but gravity was a tricky thing, very nearly tumbling him feet over shoulders and then some. His bleeding palms grasped the box's edge tightly, its wooden walls pockmarked with his blood as he pressed it stiffly to his chest. He breathed smoke one last time and disappeared from the lamp's oppressive gaze, lurching across the darkened street on feet that disagreed on where to go; feet too stubborn to ask for directions.

Sunlight blinked, his thick mop of hair throwing the world into further shadow. A will-o'-wisp of a thought led him on, past Chinese restaurants, down street corners, away from the banshee shriek of red-and-blue lights. A gentle flush across his face gave him pause, his mode of transportation giving out and claiming an empty tank as he slid down a brick wall, the box still held rigidly against his chest. He cradled it in his arm and pulled at his shirt's collar, sweat beading down the curves of his face and meeting the same abrupt end at his stubble. Small billows of smoke floating away from him like a chimney in winter, but he felt like the fire that blazed within it, heavy and blistering. The gold of his eyes rattled and he took a deep breath. Pieces of glass fell to the ground in a musical trill as he clawed the brick wall for support, staggering to his feet. Turn the key and keep on down the road; he didn't know where they were going, so they had to get there eventually.

The other wraiths he passed on the street took no notice of him, locked in their own decadent pleasures and sins. What was another brute to add to their fattening stock, their ongoing infection of the dominant population? The haggard holes he used for eyes held a pool of sunlight in them, and they were clouded by streaks of coagulated dirt he called hair. His step swayed to a music no one else could hear, harmonies and discords all along the pavement as humanity was herded along; Tuesdays they went left, Saturdays they went more left. The box remained in his arms, protected in a flesh-and-blood cage of his own making. Dreams, laws, and cages; they are all meant to be broken.

The round cylinder pressed a metal kiss against the stubble of his chin, open-mouthed and willing. A young face loomed behind the smooth shape of the gun, but those eyes held nothing, just a downward gyre of hunger and need that's depths could not be breached, not even by the man's sunlit eyes. "Give me the box, old man." He wheezed, lips burned and scratched by so many bottles and burning embers. The scratch in his voice scored wounds in his words, rattled them from his throat so they were spit out with the bile and blood of his intention.

The jewels in his hands sharpened, the gems buried on the side of his face glimmered. "No," he replied. He hadn't answered the question. Then again, the man hadn't thought it was a question; he hadn't cared to guess what grammatical label it preferred. The gun bit down on his flesh, forcing his neck to crane backwards, the blue cracks in his skin pulsing.

BANG.

The sunlight dimmed, his jeweled face cradled by the concrete as the gun's fatal kiss oozed in tender and loving devotion. Above, those empty eyes flared with the dying light, the shadowed corners illuminated for one terrifying second; one horrifying moment in which the horrors were real. He fled back into the darkness, yanking shadows back into his eyes, back into his heart.

The wooden box remained with the man, but the man did not.