Disclaimer and author's notes:
See part 1.
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Cupo: to play in a dark, obscure manner
The apartment is darkened. The lights are off and it is night outside--a cold winter's night that sparkles with hard frost. The stars are glittering like icy diamonds in his window; the faint white light filters through the glass and casts flickering shadows on his floor.
He sits on the battered old couch, with its loose stuffing and faded leather cushions. His sneakers are crusted with dirt and torn apart, the limp strings loose; the soles are scuffed and scraped with gravel marks. The cuff of his threadbare jeans is spattered with flecks of mud.
The cat prowls in the living room, mewling softly and darting across the room in a white-and-orange blur. He strokes her ears as she leaps up to curl on the couch with a rumbling purr of contentment, winking her golden-green eyes and twitching her frisky whiskers. Her tail whisks happily in the air, curling delicately as she stretches out her paws and digs her claws into the soft leather couch.
In his right hand, he still cradles a gun. There are a couple of rounds still left in the chamber, but a bullet was fired exactly two hours and four minutes ago. The revolver had cracked in his hand, the recoil had shook his firm grip. He had watched the old man die and then vanished.
He rubs his left hand across his face, wincing as his blurred vision stings. His dark black eyes ache. It will be time to go to bed soon. He blinks once or twice, staring bleakly into the darkness; his chiselled face is hard as stone and sharp as steel.
~*~*~*~*~*~
See part 1.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Cupo: to play in a dark, obscure manner
The apartment is darkened. The lights are off and it is night outside--a cold winter's night that sparkles with hard frost. The stars are glittering like icy diamonds in his window; the faint white light filters through the glass and casts flickering shadows on his floor.
He sits on the battered old couch, with its loose stuffing and faded leather cushions. His sneakers are crusted with dirt and torn apart, the limp strings loose; the soles are scuffed and scraped with gravel marks. The cuff of his threadbare jeans is spattered with flecks of mud.
The cat prowls in the living room, mewling softly and darting across the room in a white-and-orange blur. He strokes her ears as she leaps up to curl on the couch with a rumbling purr of contentment, winking her golden-green eyes and twitching her frisky whiskers. Her tail whisks happily in the air, curling delicately as she stretches out her paws and digs her claws into the soft leather couch.
In his right hand, he still cradles a gun. There are a couple of rounds still left in the chamber, but a bullet was fired exactly two hours and four minutes ago. The revolver had cracked in his hand, the recoil had shook his firm grip. He had watched the old man die and then vanished.
He rubs his left hand across his face, wincing as his blurred vision stings. His dark black eyes ache. It will be time to go to bed soon. He blinks once or twice, staring bleakly into the darkness; his chiselled face is hard as stone and sharp as steel.
~*~*~*~*~*~