open to: tadge davenport | @dirtbvg
location: callaway trailer, outskirts of deadwood
Twelve strikes from the clock on the wall, and Pope knew that he had to pull every blind closed. A rattle marked the completion of every moment, a ticking conducted by him as dark engulfed the trailer. The blinds smacked the window sill, the curtains screeched against their rusted rods, and the towel he shoved under the crack of each door was tucked away with a clank against the metal barriers.
Pope had been taught that once the midnight came, right and wrong battled. Good and bad had the chance to fight and decide who would take over the witching hour and he was to be weary. The Deadwood lights with their looming legend that beckoned the worst of creatures— and according to Orla Callaway, quite possible Pope himself— and he’d hide in the dark from it. The shadows, however, never lasted long. Once he fell asleep, as he always did no matter how hard he tried not to, hues returned behind his eyes. Twisted tales whether he liked it or not still reached him, and Pope always woke up outside of the trailer without a clue as to when he climbed out.
There was a rustling outside, and Pope stopped in his routine. There was a tug on every hair on his body, heart the only movement as it raced in his chest. Was he late? There was no way. He started at the first click, and he was done before the cuckoo’s song was done. He could make it to the back of the trailer and under another veil into the dark in just a few steps. Never had he heard a single sound, not even after Orla moved out. It was only now that she was gone that things seemed out of place, even if he didn’t want to admit.
Instead of submitting to the stillness of the trailer, Pope reached into a drawer and pulled free a flare buried between trinkets for emergencies. The door protested against his push, and he hurled himself into the night.
“What’s out there?” His voice was steady, cutting through the air farther than he thought it would. Pope knew better than to ask who. “Come out!”
❝ jesus fucking christ, man ! ❞
it was the middle of the night as tadge walked home from the bar. he left his car there because he stayed and had a few drinks after his shift and, frankly, he was the guy who stole keys from overly drunk customers. tadge led an example without following in the ones left by his grandfather. plus, his car was his baby.
now for the reason for all the noise ? a simple untied shoe was the cause. tadge wasn’t drunk enough to be falling all over himself, but the darkness had gotten the better of him, as well as the rouge shoelace of his blue chucks. he had actually bent down to re-tie his shoe when his crazy ass neighbor burst out of his door.
❝ are you fucking insane ? ❞ he asked, his tone more offended than anything as tadge was now having to wipe the dirt off of his blue jeans when he got back to his feet. ❝ are you mental ? ❞