#hellwalker

John swallows as he looks at the spatter of blood across his knuckles, the feeling in his gut like the moments before an earthquake - the world has gone still and silent in anticipation. 

His hand is vibrating and he can almost hear it. Like it's his own bones, struck like a tuning fork, that are ringing in his ears. 

Across the table, behind red glasses, the lawyer regards him.

John lifts his eyes to meet the gaze, only to realise the lawyer is not really looking at him; his gaze is diffused, his hands resting upon the table between them. 

The lawyer is running a fingertip across his own knuckle, agitating a cracked red mark, freshly healed. His Public Defender. 

Public Defender.

The thought brings a fresh sting. Everything feels raw at this moment; like even the air around him is scratching his skin. 

The lawyer tilts his head to one side. His body gives away an impatience that his neutral smile is hiding.

“Look, I shouldn't even be here-” John's talking before he knows he's started, “ok? This isn't -”

No, this is exactly what it looks like, his mind chimes in, telling the truth even as his mouth is rambling out justifications.

The lawyer's tongue darts across the divot of his lips, just for a second, before he speaks.