"Damn it, Evan." He mutters, leaning against the bed railing. "It's like you and God have both got it in for me." The face below him does not respond. Not with the raise of an eyebrow, a slight curve to the edge of his lips, or a snort; there was nothing. "Though I could count the many reasons why" He rolls his eyes. "or deny there are any." The man shakes his golden, over-gelled locks. "I'm not, because that's just not classy." He bites his lower lip. "And, if I had to pick the man who epitomized that word; it'd definitely be you, buddy."
He can still hear the sirens.
The crunching of metal and the shattering of glass.
The loss of a trophy's worth.
"Stupid!" He cries, contorting his face into that of the demented. His knuckles flash white against the gunmetal railing as he tries to keep himself upright. Bones and muscles fail.
He tastes the blood on his tongue.
They want him dead.
They want him gone.
He is the reason anger runs through their veins.
His blue eyes focus on the skeletal sockets of the man before him's. "Do you know how broken you have made this show?" He asks. "Do you know what I have to go through when I sit in that God-awful red room?"
He's the reason three and two created one.
He twists his head around to stare out the window. It is long past midnight but not yet dawn. He knows not of the time, only of the finite darkness cast by an impending charcoal storm cloud. The weather, uncommon for L.A, hadn't affected the dancer much until now; when the climate only festered the wound.
He can still hear the sirens.
The crunching of metal and the shattering of glass.
The loss of a trophy's worth.
"Stupid!" He cries, contorting his face into that of the demented. His knuckles flash white against the gunmetal railing as he tries to keep himself upright. Bones and muscles fail.
He tastes the blood on his tongue.
They want him dead.
They want him gone.
He is the reason anger runs through their veins.
His blue eyes focus on the skeletal sockets of the man before him's. "Do you know how broken you have made this show?" He asks. "Do you know what I have to go through when I sit in that God-awful red room?"
He's the reason three and two created one.
He twists his head around to stare out the window. It is long past midnight but not yet dawn. He knows not of the time, only of the finite darkness cast by an impending charcoal storm cloud. The weather, uncommon for L.A, hadn't affected the dancer much until now; when the climate only festered the wound.
