A man in a black trenchcoat steps off the gangplank onto the dock. The brim of his hat is pulled low to hide his scarred face, but the wind catches it and blows it into the sea. Occasionally, when the bullet in his spine shifts just right, he walks with a slight limp. The doctors said they couldn't remove it without hurting him worse. His face exposed, people gasp as he walks by. A child points and, as he does, the man squeezes the piece of broken glass in his hand, cutting his palm. Cleansing blood drips from his hand as he squeezes the glass tighter, walking down the street, looking for lodging. He hates the people that stare at him, hates them for banishing him to the shadows, for their gasps and giggles. More than that, he hates himself. His sins made him this way. And so, he squeezes the glass harder, drawing more blood, as he walks into a bakery with a "room for rent" sign in the window. He slips the hand with the glass into his pocket as he inquires about the room. The elderly owner agrees to rent him the room, which is a tiny place above the bakery. Upstairs, he removes his coat and shirt, revealing scars that cover his body. His self-mutilation has been relentless. The man he was is dead. All that is left is Penance.
He leaves to find work, a difficult proposition for someone with his scars. After searching fruitlessly, squeezing the broken glass harder after each rejection, he finds a job with a man named K-Dawg, working for what he is sure is the mafia. He doesn't care. That night, he goes back to his bedroom above the bakery. He cleans and bandages his hand. Tomorrow, he will switch to the other. He lies in the floor. He doesn't deserve a bed. He can never make up for his past. |
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He finds himself sleeping outside before long. The old lady at the bakery finally got tired of seeing his scarred face. He has begun wearing a trenchcoat lined with sharp spikes. His work for K-Dawg keeps him busy. He has been helping with the protection racket. When he hits people, the spikes inside his coat cause him pain. The pain brings him closer to himself, closer to Penance. He is utterly alone. |
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Fistacuffs sits by the docks, and plays his gutair, you can here the sorrowfull rifts echo down the streets
Awowawoowow |
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From the alley he sleeps in, he can hear the sad sound of the guitar. It lulls him into a state that's as close to sleep as he gets these days. Home is so far away and he can never return. |
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