#egopath

​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞      stare straight ahead      at level      that blurs the line of measure ,      as if an inch never mattered ,      for distance keep differences at bay      and makes such physical discrepancies      seem all the less      apparent .      still and all ,  funny      how mirrors of self provoke prudence      when questions ,       interrogation ,       a taste of his own medicine      mimic 𝐢𝐧𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧      like a repetitive riff ,      one he’s definitely heard before      coming from his own mouth .      ❝   remind me what this is about ?   ❞      is well - tailored man wary like himself ?      or is he just as good at hiding such hints      --      like himself ?

      “   he   says   there’s   a   surprise   for   you   in   the   garage .   ”

BLAME — IT'S A TRICKY THING TO CONTEND WITH.  he knows,  logically,  that holden is right.  there’s no point to blaming himself.  it won’t help him.  it’s not useful.  but he can’t help but think of the women that came after him.  the one person perfectly poised to catch this killer,  the one person who saw his face and walked away,  and he failed to do the one thing he was supposed to.  stop the bad guy.  save the innocents.

he felt the weight of the lives that were lost after him in every question asked of him.  the police,  memo pads poised and ready to take down a description.  journalists equally ready to unmask a murderer.  how could he stand the hypocrisy of claiming the police force were getting closer every day,  when all he could see with every flashbulb burst were the reports,  the files,  the evidence boxes.  the incontrovertible proof that if jim had stopped him,  at least two women would still be alive.

he knows he can’t blame himself.  and yet,  he also knows himself.  there are excuses that can be made for him — he certainly heard his old partner make them,  often to him:  he’d been run ragged by the investigation.  he’d had less than two hours sleep the night before.  but then there’s the fear,  validated by his own natural curiosity,  that he knew who cumberland was for some percentage of the time he’d spent with him,  and did nothing about it to get a closer look.

he can’t help but wonder if he let the man lead him to his car,  let him display some of his collection,  simply because he needed to know.  it’s that thought that haunts him.  i did this.  i let him do this.  i let him get away.

                    ❝   𝙎𝙝𝙞𝙩   ,   ❞   She   can   hear   the   vehicle   under   her   giving   out   as   the   engine   sputters   to   a   stop   in   the   middle   of   the   road.   ❝   Shit   shit   shit.   ❞   

egopath asked: what is this ?  wash and wear ? 

𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍’𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐋’𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐓.  he feels their heat against his neck, a teasing gesture that send shudders down his spine.  bill pushes holden’s hand downwards, dumbly, grabbing it in the process.  bill maintains a bored look in his eye.

❝  don’t you have work to do ? ❞   he asks calmly, stare flicking to holden’s mouth.  

❝  i   didn’t   do   it  .  ❞      orange   uniform   that   hung   loose   from   gaunt   shoulders   was   a  direct   contradiction   against   his   statement   ,   owned   by   the   department   of   corrections   :    no   longer   his   own   person   ,   just   a   murderer     :    painted   all   over   him   by   the   media .     the   boys   on   his   block   already   knew   who   he   was   when   he   entered   ,   as   did   the   guards     -    all   with   their   own   opinions   of   him .       once   ,   it   was   kind   of   cool   to   be   known   ,   not   anymore  .    eyebrows   furrow   at   the   sight   of   the   other   male    ,   fidgeting   hands   coming   from   his   knees   to   rest   upon   the   cool   surface   of   the   table   between   them   while   tired   eyes   glance   at   the   crudely   colored   signs   upon  the   wall  ,      𝚝𝚘   𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎   𝚒𝚝   𝚊𝚕𝚕   𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎   𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐  𝚏𝚘𝚛   𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏   𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚗   𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜  .      it   almost   looked   like   a   school   ,   if   your   school   was   all   grey   ,   with   bars   on   the   windows    &   armed   guards   at   each   door  .    with   a   blink   ,   his   gaze   now   holds   the   other   man’s .       ❝  that’s   what   you’re   here   to   ask    ,   right   .  .  .   ?  ❞

“  well you’re definitely not getting to the point.  ”    consider it a holden ford specialty,   if you will.     but she’s handling the annoyance with a tell-tale grin,  already knowing the true intentions behind the suggestion   (  spending this much time with someone that dances around a subject tends to have you develop a sense of forewarning pretty easily  ).    “  you do make a point there…  ”    long curtain of brunette waterfalls around her shoulders and chest as she shifts to sit forward on the couch.   it’s not too often debbie openly gives praise,   and it’s expected to be taken with a heavy pinch of salt :  their endless questioning volleys,   the incessant arrogance fostered between them…   she kind of likes it better when he’s hot-headed and direct,   so it’s lulled out with yet another tease.    “  …  i should have you start paying me for all the nights you’ll spend here   ––––   rent isn’t cheap,   y’know.  ”

❛  it’s entirely possible i’m having a midlife crisis. i mean i know i’m thirty six but i smoke, what, like two packs a day? i’ve got the internal organs of a man twice my age. are there signs of it? am i gonna want to buy a sports car or is that a man thing? ❜