A Customer //Charlotte Blair (@greenbeads)
Jan 17, 2016 0:02:30 GMT -5
Post by troylus on Jan 17, 2016 0:02:30 GMT -5
Roswell needed to take a walk. He'd used the last of his morphling; stuff that he was supposed to have kept to sell, but it had just been too tempting. That was yesterday, and he was trying to hold off buying more for at least another day. He had to get a grip on this habit before it took over and made him into the desperate losers he sold it to; skin yellow and sagging. Disgusting. Weak. Useless. He pulled on his long coat, a trophy from a fight the year before, and his most loved article of clothing. It was full of pockets for drugs, needles, cigarettes, rolls of cash and of course knives. He habitually checked his boot knife was in place too before heading out. His parents didn't even look up as he left, staring into space from their constant place in their armchairs.
The air was fairly foul, but nicer than in his family's airless dingy apartment, and he needed some time alone to manage his thoughts. He tugged his coat around him against the cold winter night air and walked. The intensity of the cravings seemed to reduce the further he got from his room and the familiar streets where he dealt and hung out with other users. He relaxed, his stride becoming less jerky and pressured. But he didn't let his guard down, in fact he became more vigilant; being outside his own territory brought risks and he didn't want to be jumped, robbed or attacked right now, even if a fight he could win might be an enjoyable diversion.
He rounded a corner looking around carefully for any threats and saw her, standing brazenly under a broken streetlight. The air caught in his lungs and his feet stopped abruptly. In the low light he could see her blonde hair, and slim tall body. He hadn’t seen his sister for a week, but he was shocked to think she was out here all alone standing on the street like a hooker. He snarled softly, his face twisting in rage. No sister of his sold herself to the highest bidder. The thought made him sick and he took several quick steps towards her, his hand wrapped around the knife in one of his pockets. His sister could sometimes win in a fight against him, even though he was taller and stronger these days. She was faster though, especially since he’d started using so much morphling, but right now he was behind her and would grab her by surprise so she wouldn’t be able to use her superior agility and grace to her advantage. He wasn’t sure what he’d do with her when he got hold of her, other than drag her home and kick some sense into her, he supposed.
Just a few steps away and she must have sensed him, or heard his heavy boots on the road, and she turned to face him. He froze once more, blinking. It wasn’t Rosemarie. The similarity was remarkable though, even now he could see her face. This woman’s eyes were a brighter blue, like ice, not the grey blue of his sister’s and his own. There were subtle differences too - thinner lips, different cheekbones, but overall they were very alike.
Roswell released his tight grip on the knife, slowly taking his empty hand from his pocket. He stood there silently eyeing her up and down, a dark glower on his otherwise handsome face, waiting for her to speak first, curious as to what she might say and sound like.
