Post by americangrime on Feb 11, 2021 23:56:32 GMT -5
Pit. Pat. Pit. Pat.
Rain hits the street above, dripping down through the sewer grates and gathering at his feet. He stares dead ahead, not singularly focused as his mind dwells on the architecture around him, the massive sprawl that could hold hundreds, if not thousands like him. The rain isn’t soft, but not entirely hard-less a monsoon, but still a sizable storm. It batters the road above, and the runoff that drips into the puddle ahead of him is a mish-mash of colors, a mix of vibrant purples and greens and reds, a ruinous rainbow road of rust and rot, the industrial cost of this world we all called home.
He walks along. He’s eschewed the newer clothing that his Love had given to him for their last appearance. It did nothing then, what would it do for him now? His old, worn boots squeak against the cement as he takes heavy, plodding steps along it. He’s aware he’s not the only man to have entered these tunnels recently, as he admires fresh graffiti staining the cinderblock, recently-emptied spray cans tossed about. For a moment, The Outcast crouches down and picks one up. He admires it for a moment, his yellow-green eyes looking over the label. He seeks to understand it more, and, as if in wonderment, mimes the spraying of paint on the graffiti.
He was, after all, a purveyor of art. His art just happened to be different from theirs-his was more visceral, more real, more risky and more raw. The Outcast leaves the graffiti to itself for a moment longer as he steps past the pile of crushed cans and into the causeway. He wades through the shallow water as he follows the tunnel deeper and deeper. Above him, the rain has intensified, and he can hear it beginning to move from a stream to a torrent, rushing in behind him. He picks up his pace, perhaps out of concern, but one can imagine it wasn’t for himself. He takes a few steps deeper into the sewer tunnels, coming to a metal grate holding him back, a gateway to an access tunnel. It’s rusted over and covered with moisture, as things tend to be in sewers. The Outcast grabs the door, and he pulls it.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Each with successively increasing force, but the door doesn’t budge. He grits his teeth, and wraps his entire fist around it. With a harder pull, the door begins to shudder. With another, the frame seems to warp. With a third, it finally rips clear off of whatever rusted metal was holding it in place. The Outcast’s hand is covered in blood as the rusted metal has, sharply, cut into it. Brownish dust sits around the cuts therein, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He brushes it off on his already-dirtied jeans, and continues moving into the tunnel. This service causeway is more clean than the rest, considering that workers likely use it on a more regular basis. Still, The Outcast takes less care than one would assume. He steps over active work sites, through areas that men will likely notice the disturbances in, especially ones caused by things larger than rats.
The Outcast doesn’t care, though. He takes a brief moment to stop at one of the storage lockers in the causeway, one where a man might set his uniform after a long day of filtering waste from the water. Hill wraps his hand around the handle, and, surprisingly, it opens with relative ease. Inside, a pair of coveralls hangs, a hard-hat, a respirator, and a bag of gear. Hill looks through it all, curious, before he turns his attention to a series of photographs hanging on the inside of the locker, pressed in place by push-pins with plastic heads. First, a man and a woman, freshly married. Then, the same man, older, with a baby in his arms. Then, the same man and woman, with two children.
The final, and perhaps most recent picture, shows the man and woman much older, with the two children, presumably with their wives, and their own children. A happy family. Euan struggles for a moment as he holds this photograph with his hands. His brain tries to make connections with synapses that don’t exist, ones that have long since rotted from disuse. Love held over him, in the way that it was, was never like this.
To this group, perhaps love was something to be shared, but to Euan?
It was always to be used. It was always to be a force of coercion. It was always to be evil.
Euan, with some care, presses the photograph back into its place. He closes the locker gently, so as to not disturb it further, before proceeding into the service tunnel more deeply. He walks out of the exit door, and into another rushing causeway, an outflow system where much of the sewer waste has likely traveled. Euan admires it for a moment, the flow of rushing water, the most raw and unrefined mass of what humanity had disposed of. The perfect place for an Outcast, a place where a man like him could finally feel at home, feel with himself.
Aurora was, of course, something he would never leave-but temporary absences help the heart grow much fonder.
Euan made his way down the support scaffolding, and to a cement stair next to the rushing water. It was clean enough, purified of the raw sewage that had clotted it for so long. Still, people who knew less would cast this aside, would call it filthy, would call it ruined.
To someone like Euan, though, it had its utility.
The Outcast took a step over a safety guardrail, and looked into the water. He saw no reflection-it was moving far too quickly-but he saw potential. The violence that rushed therien, the force with which this water traveled-this was, perhaps, the most bare form of wrath and fury.
This was as close to a mirror as he’d ever get.
Without another thought, Euan Hill stepped into the water.
-
When Aurora found him, he was water-logged. His clothing was destroyed, but he was alive. Perhaps, more so than he had been before. The two had returned to the place they called their homestead, and Aurora found herself…perturbed by the changes to him. He quietly busied himself on a set of sandwiches for the two of them, clad in a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt. His appearance, still unkempt, had more of an intention to it than ever before.
She cleared her throat. He stopped dead, but did not turn around.
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
There was a silence for a few moments.
“Yes.”
Another silence. Then, she spoke up.
“Did it help you…gain anything?”
Euan didn’t stop moving this time, finishing the sandwiches before he spoke. He swung around, and the cold violence in his eyes was much, much hotter than usual. The look on his face, still dead and empty, had something beyond it. Perhaps, beyond any potential comprehension.
“Understanding. And for this?”
The Outcast stared through Aurora, at the world behind her.
“That’s all I need.”
Cut to black.