Dark moon, clouded sky, and a breeze so damn cold that it’ll chill you to the bone, even if you’re wearing seven thermal layers. Give you hypothermia in less than a minute.

My kind of weather.

It’s a perfect contradiction to where I come from. Where I’m from and what I’m used to, it’s very hot. Some would almost say scorching. Only the insane stay, or those who are utterly lost and have no hopes and dreams to go anywhere else.

Almost like Hell.

Walking down the street, everything is as it should be: a few people rushing to get their last minute shopping done before the stores all close and lock their doors, the day drinkers heading to their favorite pubs to begin their night drinking, the criminals crawling out from their dark hiding places to do their dirty work.

This is what the night has become.

A woman dressed in a casual daytime office outfit rushes along the nearly vacant sidewalk; her head is down, because she doesn’t want to attract the wrong attention. She doesn’t like attention; even when she’s at work, and a co-worker asks her something very simple, she has to hold herself together so she won’t crumble to bits. And tonight, walking along the poorly illuminated sidewalk, it’s no different.

The drunkard who loops these city blocks has appeared once again; holding onto the lamp post with one hand and an empty bottle of Jack Daniels in the other, he swings around the post, singing a very mediocre version of Bubba Shot The Jukebox. Although beyond the point of being buzzed, his stability is surprisingly good. Several years of binge drinking does that, I guess. It creates a sort of superpower, and it’s the only kind of talent he seems to have ever had. His family always tells him how much of a horrible waste of space he is – they’ve always done that, even before he knew what alcohol was. When he first discovered the bottle, it was like, finally, a relief from all of the bullshit. Booze is his happy place: he doesn’t have to feel a damn thing.

The streetwalker on the street corner, dressed in a mini skirt as she freezes her ass off. The shit I do for money, she thinks to herself bitterly. Back in highschool, she was a cheerleader. Straight A student, could have been the valedictorian but didn’t want to write that sappy kind of speech. When she graduated, she had her life all planned out: she wanted to go back to school, take creative writing, become a poet or a published author. Never would she have guessed that this was where she’d end up: signalling cars to pull over so she could have a little bit of extra cash.

The breeze seems to blow a little colder tonight; something is going to happen. I don’t know what it is, but I have a feeling it won’t be considered good. It’s work for me, basically. Not the best, but I can’t complain. After I done, the cops can have at it.

Maybe this nervous man with the Desert Eagle hidden in the back of his jeans knows where the location of my pick-up is. With his hood up, he walks with fear and nervous revenge. Tears look like they’re going to fall from his eyes, but he won’t let them go that far: his brother wouldn’t have wanted that. With pending blood on his hands, he crosses the street.

And to my surprise, I follow him.

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Ello! Again, I wanted to try another descriptive piece! A little dark, yeah, but at least I can say I went there. Kind of inspired by my emotions, and Wreak Havoc by Skylar Grey. Certainly an interesting bit, to say the least. Certainly interesting.

Like, follow me for more, comment what you thought of it! 

Until the next ship comes in,

Hannah

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