She wanders the haunted streets alone, in the shadows. The air is stale. The sound of distant moans amplify through the seemingly vacant alleyways. She can feel the eerie frequency of presence. A conscious existence different from her own. It fills the empty vessels of these poor rotting bastards….poor is too kind of a word for her.
Her knuckles clench tight to the makeshift billy club. Her back is turned to the confrontation. She digs into her mental jukebox for the appropriate soundtrack.
Her loneliness interrupts and selects mid 60’s slow song. Sometimes her imagination works against her. It figures. She thinks to herself as she sighs aloud.
Thanks to Jul Mae Kristoffer for the color help!