Cole Phelps Grows Wings
"Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands, come then."
-Hamlet
As the day begins, on a cold July night, Cole Phelps awakens to an intense pain on his upper back regions. Cole Phelps screams out. Nobody's there to help.
The pain is too much.
The police are called. Bad memories resonate in Cole Phelps eyes. Arid tears fall from his eyes. He breaths heavy, creating an eddy of air whirl-pooling around his limpid body. The neighbors are in a muck. What to say? IDK, who snitched? Cole Phelps awakens to the sound of door pounding. Fist on wood. Ardent wood.
Cole Phelps rises.
Cole Phelps eyes go in full circle to the nearest mirror. His new wings shine bright against the moonlight torrid through the fluorescent window. No escape. No savior. No hero. No chance.
Politic corruption. Politics corrupt. Police police police police death.
The wings shine. New bright and produced. He feels the injection wounds in his spinal cord.
"Dear God." Cole Phelps prays. "Dear God."
Cole Phelps leered out the panes of the window, smoke signals polluted the air more than the secret room Roy Earle fostered in his home, over populated with infants of the dead variety. Rabid Earle, as Cole Phelps liked to call him.
Rabid Earle. The monster beneath your child's bed, waiting for you to fall asleep, giving him every opportunity to snatch you baby away.
Cole Phelps flittered his wings in ennui.
Cole Phelps knew what he had to. Police work. Police. Detective Cole Phelps.