one old bookshop [20/??? artefacts collected]

[sadfreezingbrit_archive]

As the dust settled on a stack of yellowed magazines I remembered why I had learned to love the silence. Silence was all I had left now. Silence and books that were never bought, a telephone that never rang.

Every day I would pour myself a cup of coffee, sit behind the counter and read the paper. Later I would do inventory and I would stop near the grimy mirror in the corner and look for a familiar face that never showed.

I would dutifully wait for a customer or two and at the end of the day I would grab the old broom and sweep the floor. Every day I would wipe the counter and every time I would wash my hands before closing and wonder if I would ever stop smelling the blood.

Then, after every burning sunset, I would lock the store and for my own benefit I would pause for a moment and fake disappointment and surprise at yet another day without sales gone by.

In a city that was bustling with life at every corner my little shop was only a relict; dead and long forgotten. We had that much in common at least.

Outside the noise of the morning traffic slowly died down like a drizzle of summer rain. I grabbed my cup and the paper and sat down behind the counter. Today, I thought, would be just like any other day.

[ OOC: Information on noir!Philip is here. All threads take place before his encounter with Dean, unless somebody wants to play medic. ]

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[dashboardlite.livejournal.com]

His grip was weak. Fingers slipping on my arm with the greasy sweat of a traitor. As long as I gave him enough air to scream, that was fine by me. It meant he was still alive. I didn't have it in me to cut him down when I could leave him bent outta shape just like me.

"Hold still," I heard myself say, but there was a disconnect between my voice and my brain. I knew what I was doing, and I knew that I wanted it - more than anything. The scent of blood was thick in the air, made me feel gowed-up like a dope fiend on the big high.

Before I could think, I smiled back and slid the shiv into his left eye with the precision of a master surgeon. Easy flesh that gave and popped in an instant. A simple twitch of the knife was enough pull the bloody mass up and out, and I jerked it from his skull like I was plucking a ripe apple off a tree.

Payback was a bitch, and I enjoyed fucking her.

[sadfreezingbrit.livejournal.com]

I thought I could turn the tables in my favour at the last second, but with one arm cold and stiff and another barely twitching I had to wonder what delusional corner of my brain that little mockery came from.

I thought the bullet wound was bad, that red-hot paralysing pain Dean's fingers pushed through my veins like hot irons. That was before my eye saw its last ever close-up, the shine of the sharp metal tip.

I thought of Hyde Park in winter, a blanket of snow and the dark city at night.

I thought of nothing whatsoever.

[dashboardlite.livejournal.com]

I sat back, flicking the dripping eye from my shiv and taking a gander at the mess I'd left behind. He didn't scream. He didn't do anything. For an instant I thought I'd killed him somehow, made a mistake in my anatomical calculations.

I still hadn't won.

The whole gist behind revenge wasn't just the violence - it was making somebody else feel your pain. If I couldn't do that with one measly turncoat, then I came out with nothing. But I was mulling too much. I got what I came for.

I wiped the knife off on Clarence's shirt before putting it away, and then leaned down to to smack his cheek.

"Hey. Iago. Shake a leg."

[sadfreezingbrit.livejournal.com]

I almost asked him for ten more minutes when I remembered that I didn't just open my eyes on a lazy Sunday morning. And that was before realising that I didn't even open one of my eyes at all.

Back in the days I'd never passed the bottle around before taking a sip or a dozen and I'd sampled plenty of my wares quite generously. But none of that compared, nothing I remembered then or would ever remember felt quite like that briefest of moments after I came to and before I noticed what was missing.

The pain.

Like ripples from a stone in water I felt it coursing through my body, returning in shivers and growing like a noise coming in from the distance. Sirens and bells and screams, all approaching faster and louder and heavier until I thought I'd burst with it.

But even then it only came out a hoarse whine before my pale lips fell shut again.

[dashboardlite.livejournal.com]

I never gave fellas The Broderick nearly as often as I should've, and while this was satisfying and all, it just wasn't enough. The pain was there, sure, and I could tell by the way Clarence flinched that the recovery time would be a long road.

He made a sound like a wounded animal and fell silent again. Long as he was alive and left with the gift I'd given him, I was okay with that, for the time being. Taking a finger almost seemed to be bad sport at this rate, and nobody ever said I didn't play fair when it was called for.

...the percussion section must be playing a Benny Goodman big-band number in Clarence's head, though, judging by the expression on his face.

He wouldn't forget this anytime soon.

I stood and rolled down my sleeves, tightened the tie, and pulled my blazer back on. Hat settled on my head, I lit up a gasper and inhaled deeply, blowing smoke into the air.

"...See you around, Clarence."

I picked the keys up off the floor, swinging them and unlocking the front door. Chucking the bits of metal back at the counter, I tipped my lid and stepped outside.

Othello came along for the ride.