The weather could not have been any better for the sightseeing Etienne had hoped to accomplish on one of the last remaining days in Japan—despite being a bit overcast, the Yokohama spring air was balmy and the perfect compliment to a trip to the Buddhist temple the pierrot had his eye on. |
The text had come as the brunet was curled comfortably in his bed, breeze carrying through the open window to mix with raspberry-tinged cigarette smoke. Etienne had taken the day to wander aimlessly throughout Shibuya, the bookstores drawing more from his wallet than intended, and though he couldn't read Japanese, he had procured several art books that had been occupying his attention since the return home. The pages of cel-shaded figures next to their watercolour concept counterparts were abandoned in his lap as his mobile buzzed beside him, the plea for company a far more immediate concern than ( his new acquisitions. ) |
If you kept your ear to the ground long enough, you started to see the patterns. The way the map traced through the whorls of your brain, the way the supernatural seemed to seek you out as if reclaiming a long-lost child. Patrick hadn't been dead for very long in the grand scheme of things, he supposed, but ten years was enough time to learn the tricks and trades. The way he couldn't ever go back anywhere near his hometown, the way he couldn't pose for group photos, the way he couldn't have social media under his real name. The way Patrick Robbins was very dead, a gravestone in the cemetery, an obituary, his parents ten years deep into their mourning... the way they'd buried an empty coffin and there had been so much red tape and handwringing and crying about a mix-up, his body must've been sent to cremation by mistake, a young man fired over it even though he'd sworn his own innocence. Patrick had felt bad about that but really, ( what was he supposed to do? ) |
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