An additional striking coat of black that covetously frames his tense form; flows and flaps having endured once a too many dark storm, whirlwinds of screeching souls that past recollections of fearing rips and tears and coffee trails became laughable, several times the face of hell itself and now as ever, coated in utter viscera .
Scarlet, faded-and-aged brown, and burgundy marks bleed together through his suit and stain in the sun's bitter fire, yet again another reminder of Lucifer's tauntingly insidious smile.
It's burned into his edged mind, and at this point, the wish of sanity or heaven's warm retrieval was a hopeless whimper lost in an uncaring wind.
A shaking hand retracts into the left-side pocket, like animalistic instinct.
Or in John's case? Pure ol' repetition;
From the cradle to the renounced graves, the poor bastard can't seem to quit.
He inhales deeply, picturing golden gates for a mere moment..
-Cigarette ash suddenly whirls and hits the dirt faster than a bullet of rain. The flares flicker and burn the discoloured soil in anguish; swirl then scatter like flaming, drunk dancers across the ground.
'Damn it kid, I thought I told you to stop following m-'
He goes to turn but only a burnt feather is left, its edges tainted a deep grey.