Re: [capital pawnshop: hannah & david]
The windows were sheathed in thin curtains, an idea of lace, yellowed by nicotine. Mostly they were shut, but one gaped open. That triangular sliver offered a view of, from nearest to furthest: knick-knacks on a dresser below the window; a filthy carpet, twisted out of place, doubled over on itself; a bed, its white linens gray in the orange light from the street; two men, one standing, one kneeling.
The kneeling man was struggling to stand up, but the other man was grinding the heel of his boot into the back of his hand, powdering his knuckles into dust. The silhouette had his back to the window. A gun sat on the floor half-hidden beneath the bed, still rocking on its chamber where it had been kicked, glinting darkly.
The man on the ground had a crack in his glasses. He was a narrow figure who must be tall when standing, when not scrabbling with his left hand at the ankle of the man who was crushing his right into uselessness. He whispered, thickly, "Help - oh Jesus, no -" There was blood streaming from his nose into his mouth.
The man standing over him had been still since Hannah looked in. So still, and when he moved again, a shudder went down his spine, as if he was just waking up.
Was he a man? Was he a man at all? He stood taller than most men, his figure obscured by a dark, loose coat that hung low and close. His dark hair was matted and snarled, pressed close to his neck, more canine than human. When he spoke, it was evident who had been laughing - this was a voice that ground together like stone against stone. He was speaking, and he was leaning into the face of the terrified man, who shrank back, too frightened now to even pull at his injured hand. The words, half indistinguishable, could be heard in part. "-who buries a dream should dig it up again. Don't you agree?"
The streetlight outside flickered. The terrified man's eyes were drawn to the window, and to the outline of Hannah's face in it, and he began to scream. "Help, help me, call the police -" The man in slapped a hand across his mouth, lifting him by his head up, up off the floor, suspending his weight on the fragile vertebrae of his neck while the terrified man kicked and clawed and screamed his muffled screams. The man in black didn't flinch, not even when the terrified man found a pocket knife somewhere in the back pocket of his pants and buried it in his attacker's arm up to the hilt.
The man in black looked over his shoulder.
Black ash smeared across his eyes deepened their hollows. The whites of his eyes were as white as the irises, blank pale, with barely a ring to show where they might be, a small, flat pupil hovering almost alone. The man he had suspended with a hand across his face kicked and screamed, but his eyes were fixed on the girl in the window, and narrow pupils blossomed broad.
"Amy." As if she'd always been there. His expression changed completely.
He extended a hand toward the window, as if to help her in. "Amy. Come inside."