#redridgestart

“Not too far, Lyla,” he watched his daughter -- a self-proclaimed bookworm -- run her way into Subtext, straight upstairs towards the kids section. “Stop running!” he called out, watching her turn momentarily, throwing him a quick scowl and then a grin as she continued. She was rebellious, stubborn, fucking hard-headed, just like her father. It was funny, she looked a lot like her mother, had her nose, her hair, even some of the same expressions reminded him of her -- but every bit of her personality was Damien’s.

He made his way towards the cafe area, not really one for books (it involved too much concentration, something he barely even had just to take care of his kid alone), seeing the line grow in front of him, his boot hitting against something small as he made his way forward. A pager. An actual fucking pager. He lowered himself to pick it up, his hands fidgeting with it for a minute, “damn, I haven’t seen one of these in forever.” His eyes caught sight of the person standing in front of him, “is this yours? Just found it on the floor there.”

It had been an overall slow night at Violet thus far. There was nothing particularly noteworthy happening, nothing grabbing Caspian’s attention, nothing to take his abundance of energy out on. He’d probably been cleaning the same whiskey glass for the last five minutes, and it was getting boring quickly. For a city that didn’t sleep, Red Ridge seemed incredibly sleepy right now. The sound of the door opening grabbed his attention; turning towards it, he gave the newcomer a little smile. “Welcome in,” he greeted as if he were the host at a formal restaurant. “What's your poison tonight?” Hopefully this person had some way to entertain him.

Red Ridge reeked of murder and blood -- the town’s name had started becoming somewhat a joke among agencies all over Nevada; oh yeah, Red Ridge, there’s a good reason it’s called that now, huh? Jake was tired, frankly. It wasn’t nearly as much as it felt -- someone going missing every month or so (to be honest, all the missing and murdered cases were piling up and he could hardly keep track of it all), it felt like it was every week that a new person had been reported missing, every week a new body found in a pool of their own blood that had coagulated along their frame, cold, stiff and lifeless with nothing else but a single word typed on a note, stuck on their body. Note after note collected as evidence without any indication who’d done it. Not a single print, not a single hair or clothing fiber to go off. Whoever they were -- they were tidy, neat, smart.

Rogues Club normally hadn’t been high on his list of places to go but Freddie was busy that night at work for the next two hours and he enjoyed himself a good ol’brawl. The small arena, as usual, had been more crowded than he would’ve liked, but he found himself an empty seat next to one that had been occupied. “D’you mind if I grab this? I’d like to actually see what’s happening.”

Research was literally the only reason why Noel found themself at St. Peter’s that night. It was a weird balance to uphold -- introversion, wanting to withdraw from society and yet having to throw yourself into it, willingly. They didn’t choose investigative journalism as a career path for the people though, maybe not directly anyway, but for the truth. They wanted the people to know the truth, no matter how ugly it got. Did that cost them? Sure. You could say that. It cost them in relationships, in jail time, in general dislike for the human population but nothing mattered more to Noel than honesty.

“I’ll just have a beer,” Noel gestured to the bartender, sitting themself on a stool at the bar. They removed a black-ink pen and a small Moleskin notepad from the inside of their messenger bag, which now sat lazily against the bar top, its brown, faux leather flap hanging over the edge of the battered counter. “From tap, bottle, or?” Noel’s eyes trailed to the bartender in front of them, “from tap?” They glanced over, seeing the line of beer brands, “the Yuengling is good, thanks.”

lunch hour was, as usual, a close rendition to hell on earth. customers had rushed in and out, and it felt like lately everyone had been just a little more on edge than usual — the usual grind of this job had been rendered lifelessly cruel, even, when every single customer appeared to be carelessly neurotic, harsh and simply looking for reasons to get angry. and she felt all of it — like their anger was some sort of virus, and inside of her it felt heavy, something like a sour aftertaste sticking to the back of her tongue. she was tired, running around delivering orders with a thin film of sweat gathering on her back, her shirt sticking to her skin. by the time she’d managed to catch a break, the sun was scalding hot outside. 

she’d smoked in silence, though her nervousness couldn’t be wiped away by nicotine. something had been ticking her for days; not just the regular incursions of valencia people showing up on her doorstep (how she hated those visits), nor the low influx of customers asking for tattoos. it was something in the air, rather; she’d been trying so hard to avoid newspapers and headlines, and yet it felt they’d changed the atmosphere in its core. heading back inside, then, exhaustion fell upon her bones — she had to get back inside, instead took her place on the curb and let her cigarette burn down to cinders. the second she could hear steps, her reflex was spontaneous — “i’ll be there in a sec. just — gimme a minute”.

mopey faces aren’t unusual in this corner of the earth. either you walk in here for a drink before getting your ass kicked at rogue’s, or you’re coming for a place where all your sorrows, your failures and faults will fit just right in with the chipped paneling on the walls, the stains on the floor and the ever present smell of ancient booze seeping beneath the floorboards. somehow, she likes it — feels right at home among broken things, be them humans or the cracking shards of glass beneath the counter. she waltzes from one corner of the counter to the other with ease, and she is grateful for the grind of every day: it keeps the thoughts at bay, as if evil had no reason to crawl through the door of st. peter’s — shit’s been rotten for far too long already, in here.

she, however, still feels a certain responsibility for everyone’s sorrow. it weighs over her; as if any disruption of an otherwise precarious, but trustworthy balance, automatically became a direct consequence of her presence when it happened around her. egomaniacal, perhaps: she still felt it was her duty to correct its existence. so, hands dutifully polishing a load of spoons before setting them back in the drawer, fred’s eyebrows quirk in inquisitive interest. “long day?”,  the hint of a smirk pulling the corner of her lips upwards. “i’m not gonna have to start crackin’ jokes like some tv bartender, am i ?”

her thoughts have been slipping past her grip, lately. they trail out of her, like snakes crawling along the streets of a town that’s looking less like a town and more like a wasteland everyday. they escape her, latch themselves onto corners of the city where the asphalt smells like blood now, or something rotten, the pestilent fumes of decay. sometimes she forces herself to occupy her mind with something mundane, a small little detail to keep her tethered to a here and a now — a list of nothings to turn into white noise. a new detergent for her washing machine; that blouse she saw in the windows the other day; some flowers for the living room, red; red would look good on the white table cloth; red on white looks a lot like blood. 

she doesn’t realize that her hands have been escaping her control, too. by the time she snaps back to reality, she’s dug out the pen from her purse and has riddled a napkin with scribbles — it might look shapeless, it might look like a curly array of incoherent lines. she stares, blinks, and knows it looks just like a stain of ink. “jesus christ”, camille sighs, rubbing a hand over her face as if that could drain whatever kind of toxic sewage water has been leaking into her brain, where normal thoughts are supposed to be. glancing at the bottles behind the counter, she remembers college, how some girls would spend the night getting wasted just for the sake of it. fuck it, she’s never gotten drunk — maybe she needs to. “will you pour me another one?”, she clicks her fingernail against the empty glass, a tired look at the bartender. “actually, make it double”. 

location:  violet ,  10:33 pm

he lessens the pangs of a headache     with beer ,     the bottle held against the corner of his forehead     like an ice pack ,     and remaining there for what has seemed like a lightyear .      crisp ,  cool precipitation     leaves its droplets behind ,    free falling to lashes ,     among eyes that more so blink and flicker     against its own natural will     than it does at the sprinkle of water .     they stare below ,     vacantly ,     where skin grows raw ,     red     against the numbing chill     --     but it doesn’t numb .     relief barely lets up     --     perhaps this wasn’t the best place to go in order to heal ,     where rampant smells ,     roaring music ,     running mouths tend to be ,     one is more likely to create a headache than treat one .     yet ,  somehow ,     remorse doesn’t yet wash over his shoulders .     mind still promotes     peace and quiet     as this part of the sphere ,     functioning like a jungle    or a gymnasium ,     enwraps him ,     and he sits there ,     letting it hold him .