The ride felt long, which would usually have put Caim on edge despite the fact that he slept the entire trip. He woke up just before they pulled into Penn Station and he was one of the first off the car, trying to put as much space between himself and widely public as possible in New York City. He kept his head bent, his eyes down, and his shoulders hunched as he slid between the street traffic, searching for some sort of back alley. Upon finding one he relaxed a little, stood up straighter, and raised his eyes. That's better.

Winding around New York City through its alleys and backstreets wasn't as difficult as he had predicted, but then again he knew the general layout of the city, though even with his knowledge he had to peek out onto a main street every once in a while to check his location.

Eventually when he exited onto a street he spotted a cemetery down the road and he froze. I didn't… I didn't think I'd find it this fast… He swallowed and took a step back, into the shadows behind him, an ache throbbing in his chest. Mia…

He turned and bolted down the alley he had come from. He hadn't expected this, hadn't wanted this. He knew that leaving two days earlier than he had to was extreme, but there was nothing in Hudson for him. Now he was early, in a city that he wanted no part of, and he had to face the future of two days from now. What am I going to do until then?

He stopped and looked around, glad to see that he had no idea where he was. Taking a deep breath he tried to sort out anything he needed to do. As he cast his eyes around he caught sight of his gloveless hand. With a shiver traveling up his spine he sat down to inspect his newest mark. It was a yellowish orb, about the size of the palm of his hand with rays casting out to between his fingers and partially onto the miniature limbs themselves. He frowned at the new tattoo, as he had stared at the other three.

Looking around to make sure no one was coming he huddled farther back into the space between two dumpsters he had sat in and shrugged his bag off. He then pulled off his sweater and tugged his left glove off as well and pushing up his right sleeve.

Lying on the palm of his left hand was the red cross that was so familiar so hospitals. He had gotten that about six months earlier after drunkenly falling off the edge of a bridge he was walking across and giving himself a gash right up the back of his right calve. The cut had healed a bit, but he had still been forced to stitch the wound closed himself. He shuddered at the thought and the mental images of all the blood…

He quickly turned his attention away from his own memories.

On his right forearm sat a slim silver sword that rested in his flesh with the end of its hilt touching the inside of his elbow and the tip of the blade residing where his wrist joined his hand. He had gotten that two weeks ago when he had cut his hand open at the restaurant.

His last mark was his oldest and the only one he would even consider wanting to keep. It was the intricate ball of fire that sat on the back of his right shoulder: the last spot on him that Mia had ever touched.

He glanced at the three tattoos within his immediate sight and felt his lips pull back into a face of disgust. What on Earth am I? Nothing of Earth… He quickly covered the marks up, pulling his sweater back on and getting other right glove from his bag. Once fully covered he felt safer and more in control. He knew that his curses had a mind of their own but it was nice to think that he had some say in their appearances.

He gazed around himself, trying to think of anything that would require his attention at the moment. As though that thought were a probe his head started to ache and he remembered the kick from last night. He slowly raised his hand and touched his head, feeling the dried blood caked onto his black hair. I must look like something out of a horror flick. Some sort of zombie or vampire or something. This brought a small smile to his lips.

He moved his hand down his neck, scratching off the dried liquid, thinking about whether or not to use the water in his pack to clean himself off. I don't know when it'll rain next, and I can always fill the bottle somewhere. That decided he pulled the water bottle out from his bag and poured the contents over his head, running his fingers through his hair to try and clean it out. He'd have proper shower the next time it rained or if he was in a position to borrow a real one.

The water that trickled from his head found its way down his shirt and only then did he realize how hot he was. He usually didn't pay attention to the temperature as he'd prefer to be covered than to not be hot, but whenever it was brought to his attention he felt it. No time for that.

To try and get his thoughts on something else he stood and put his water bottle away before glancing around. He'd walk around for the day, find somewhere to stay for the night, and then make his way back to the cemetery tomorrow. Only on the fourteen would he set foot there.