t a x m a n

                                   There was still a disconnect from the relative fame he found in the local community and the normalcy he dictated his daily life with. Not owning a television set himself, Rust was ignorant of the amount of airtime his achievement had gotten -- his and Marty's names practically becoming the headline for the resolved Dora Lange case and ensuring shoot-out. He had noticed tentative eyes follow him everywhere, a few fleeting glances and conversations arising in the aisles of the grocery stores and in the traveled land. But he spend most of his time alone or at work, so the effect this woman's words held was still profound.

He spoke with his accent thick, emotionless words echoing a thought that was unusual for the moment but reeked of cliche ideas.

Glancing up at the clock, she realized Audrey still wasn't home, and it was half an hour past curfew. How could she blame her with all that was going on? The backlash from the mess that she and Marty had created seemed to always fall on them, and it wasn't fair. 

A knock on the front door interrupted her thoughts, and there was a tinge of worry that it had something to do with Audrey. She quickly moved to the door, but stopped when she heard the voice. 

They had to face each other eventually. Now was as good a time as any. 

After opening the door, she studied him for a long moment. It was more than obvious he'd been drinking again. He looked even worse than the first night they'd met. 

Or maybe it was the beer that had dulled his emotions. He hadn't found a completely somber moment in days, and the blurred perceptions of the world were starting to blend together into a single, amorphous entity. There was a dull void of self-pity where his anger should have been.

He looked back at Maggie for a moment, his dizzying stature swaying as if tasseled to the earth on a pair of stilts. But he felt hardly tasseled at all, as if the world was only a dream that he had awoken into, and he was only floating in the oaken summer air.

        ❝ I'm fine. ❞ 

The response was atypical for him, a juxtaposition from the norm. Adversely, the words he spoke were also far from the truth. It was obvious in his slurred speech.

        ❝ We need to talk. ❞ 

                                   Ophelia has never really seen the appeal of smoking. It may look attractive to some, she can see that. The smoke filling the air, the stick hanging from parted lips. It’s a sight, for sure. But, the smell— The smell leaks from one’s pores, and dissolves into their clothing. It’s never ending, and it must burn — She’s sure it burns.

                           “ Uhm —”

                                   There’s a distinct pause, as she tries to gather her thoughts; his vulgar language seeping into her bones. She shakes.

                          “ I was saying that.. My friend, she’s been missing for quite a few days now. Her folks think she might have run off, skipped town. But, I don’t think so.”

                                 Crossing lean arms over her chest, shoulders rise, and she shrugs. The toe of her shoe digs into the ground below her, while blue eyes continue to stare at his lit cigarette.

                                   He didn't smoke for the asset of sexual appeal, or even for the aesthetic that is casted. He never let subsurface thoughts such as those lay any influence into his routine; rather, Rust's habit was a conscious jab at the futility of life -- a simple means of ending the much larger picture and slowly evaporating every year of existence into a single haze of self-destruction.

And each breath he exhumed was like the casting of energy out of his body, a grey flume of his grim soul being exorcised of its eternal demons.

                                   He now assumed his slight suspicion to be correct. The girl's friend was very likely a victim of the same malady that had infected Dora Lange and the Fontenot girl. There was no denying the similar circumstances that surrounded their disappearances; however, this one contained no body or evidence to suggest foul play that escaped the purely circumstantial.

                                   ❝ Plenty of girls skip town 'round these parts. ❞

His accent ran thick and deep, the words dulled with a quality of indifference but the curious tone left a void in the absence of emotion. Rust let the cigarette dangle in within his fingers, drooping slightly.