The beast in a human skin suit that barely fits, bursting at the poorly sewn seams.
He's depraved, he's terrifying, he's ruthless. And he doesn't try to be civil, especially when his entire life has been anything but.
Now, that makes him sound like he's evil by intention. I mean, looking at him... you'd think little good of him before you're scrambling for the hills (given he hasn't decided to chase you, yet).
He's a stocky, broad shouldered man with generous layers of fat to pad him out just right, his build nothing short of predatory. His hands are meaty with thick, fleshy fingers and grimy fingernails that are always marinating in a fresh layer of an unfrotunate victim's blood. The very hands that wield a damn near ancient chainsaw with almost unsettling ease, unceremoniously driving the blunt, rusty teeth of the whirring machine deep into whatever poor thing is on the other end.
Not to mention the most obvious: a mask made of human flesh that wraps around his lower face and jaw, secured by a series of practiced stitches (some his own, others Luda May's handiwork.)
It's messy, it's unsettling and most of all, it's human.
But, surely, that's the worst part about him, right? It doesn't get worse than that... does it?
You haven't seen death until you've looked into those eyes (if they can even be called that). There's something about them that makes them seem less like complex sensory organs and more like confessions.
Sinful, quiet, blunt confessions that would send violent shivers cascading down your back. Confessions of his day's questionable 'work', confessions of his wrecked childhood, confessions of his most implicit thoughts.
His eyes themselves? They're hooded, obscured by dark, dense brows with circles underneath that look more like bruises.
And they damn well could be.
Deep, nebulae-like splotches of colour that bloom over his sunken undereyes, half-hidden by leather. And every time his calloused fingertips press down against them? A dull ache blossoms and pulses under his scarred skin, reddened by sunburn from the merciless Texas sun.
Each throb under his skin is a story with a bad ending, left behind by his last meal's sorry attempts to escape.
And let me be clear: they never escape.
Thomas Hewitt makes sure of it, personally.
creds: @mieluno thank u lots for such pretty dividers! ^_^
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