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The environment was nothing perpetually shy of tempting and perfect. The putrid and desolate lingering odor of fallen blood was a scent that encompassed the spectral figure. It was like the smell was carefully enclosed within this deep, unrelenting aura that almost had a sense of purpose. It was thick, thicker than anyone could possibly remember. But remembrance and commemoration were not always on board with those who relied solely on their fragile memories. What is it that exasperates the mind, but hinders a scar so the memory is not lost on the wings of unacquainted and unattended luxuries of temporal space, into aspects of our very existence we cannot defy? Fear. Tread not into the steps of the non-illuminated, do not follow where light refuses to shine, and never look into the eyes of the eternal void, where your very reluctant life will be reprimanded for a blinking second of cowardice.

The creamy luster of the fog started to dissipate as a figure gently pushed through the thick clouds. It was that time of night, the time where those who were out remembered the dangers that lurked with the evening stars. He was that danger. Slowly he arose from the bench, wearing the same attire he had always worn. His face was pale, emotionless, from what you could see. The collar of his cape has been flipped up to shield his face to hide himself. Dark red eyes peered out from the tinted shades he wore to cover his eyes, not only to hide them, but also from protection of the light. Jack clenched his left hand into a fist, cracking the knuckles that underlay the torn and outdated leather gloves, the pleural friction sound being emitted from the leather on leather motion by his hand. His nostrils flared, pushing away the unwanted aroma and scent of grass which agitated him greatly.

It was slightly windy, so the leaves would break off from their respective branches and gently glide down, swinging from side to side. If he managed to catch one, a rare occurrence, he would hold it in his hand for a mere second, and the leaf would die. It would turn brown instantly, the edges crisping and browning more and more every second he held it. It was like an oven burning it into a crisp. A still body, but peering eyes yearned for the night sky, the reflection of the moon bouncing off the shades he wore. He could not help but smile – to what purpose he smiled was a mystery. He made light steps, as if he was not meant to be heard, or even seen for that matter. He followed the path of concrete slabs which lay so kindly to the light posts that guided the way for those who could not see. Each one he passed could not help but flicker, it was their way of cringing at the man who they agreed was not worthy of such light. If you would even call him a man; a decaying savage beast who lived and thrived on the pain and suffering of others. It was like trying to communicate or reason with a lion, there is no reason, no logic, just desires and lust which are fueled by the sacred fluid of our lives.

It felt lovely, almost orgasmic to be in the threshold of the living, instead of meddling with creatures of the unknown and family members who wish so desperately to shred you of your name. His right hand reached into his left coat pocket and pulled out one of two red roses. His hand beneath his glove pinched the rose by the luscious green stem and pressed his fingers into the thorns to ensure a more passionate approach. He brought the rose up so slowly, so tenderly to his mouth, where blood-caked lips would place a gentle kiss on several petals. It was beauty in slow-motion, something right out of a movie. Jack inhaled seductively, was it the rose that aroused him, or the scent of blood?

Either way, a lust was brewing...