@controlit

the past few weeks had been rough. beyond rough, really. the memories of the destruction, the death, the painful and lengthy process of just healing were blurred and foggy, only truly coming to him through nightmares and flashbacks, or moments where a sight, a touch, a smell would suddenly jar his memory.

he was tired. so tired, and weak from living off of stolen food and hours of sleep in the safest places he could find. alcoves in alleys, abandoned parts of the subway system. he had to go home. he had to see what he had done to the little church, wanted to know. wanted his meager possessions. new underwear, socks.

the church was dead quiet from the outside, bent sidings and roofing. splintered wood. but credence could feel the presence of someone. the same way that he felt moments before the snap of mr. graves arrival. the way he felt when mr. graves was close, the heavy pressure of something suffocating - but it was different. it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. it was familiar, yet something he was sure he hadnt ever felt before.

in a shaking grasp, credence held a broken beam of some sort in one hand, and pushed his way into the broken building with the other. he couldnt be afraid anymore. not when he was alone. not even his modesty was around to protect him any longer. he was a man. he could do this. regardless of the possibility that they were a witch, just like mr. graves.