Chapter Text
You watched with a thousand-yard stare as raccoons tipped your neighbor's trash over in the dead of night; insomnia was a common occurrence now, so working on your houseplants and just watching the world go by was your only way to pass time. Not that you were complaining, watching the cloudy night sky with perpetual silence was a million times better than what your experience was. The scurrying of wild animals was nothing compared to blaring sirens and airplanes landing.
Edensin was a fine place, it was where you grew up after all, and you didn't come out more fucked up than anyone else there, so there's that to hang onto. It just happened to be a very... active place where normal sleeping patterns weren't the expectancy. The town was littered with fast food joints and dirty, cheap clubs. Appealing as a rebellious teenager and depressing as an adult. That's why you left, you remind yourself, to escape mundanity and experience a stimulating lifestyle.
Yeah, that wasn't really how it turned out. Why the fuck would you be living in a run-down trailer park between countries if it worked? Blame it on youthful naivety, you suppose.
The world came into focus once more at the violent knock at your door, making you jump. Shit, it had to be 2am by this point, who was going to come knocking in the middle of the night if it weren't to complain about something ridiculous? You turned the switch of the radio that you barely realized was playing so it was off and peered out the window, it was difficult to see at the awkward angle it was placed. Thanks again, caravan architects, for your contribution to making life stressful.
In the dim light, you could see a dog with no collar, some kind of pitbull, stretching before locking eyes with you. Jesus this dog was menacing... You'd never seen anything like it manage to be so scruffy. That couldn't have been the person at the door, though-- unless they were carrying wild mutts around with them. Either way, you didn't have the time to lament it as a foot-shaped dent quickly formed in your door. You rushed over to swing it open and save your home further damage.
"What the fuck is the matter with you, dude?" You shouted at what you presumed to be a wackjob neighbor or drunk kid. Only when you looked up, you were not-so-pleasantly greeted by the man walking past you into your kitchen. When you turned to confront them, it suddenly dawned on you that you had never seen this man in your life-- and since the area was minuscule you had really thought you knew everyone. Clearly not. More importantly, this shaggy-looking, red-headed bastard had the audacity to slump onto your couch while bleeding out!
"Wow, calm down! I'm only staying here for a night, so chill out, you sissy." He drawled out in a bored tone. How could he be so calm when it looked like he'd been shot 30 times over?! It was baffling, so much so you had to take a second (which the dog took to follow his owner in and lay by his feet-) and get your brain to come up with some comprehensible words to tell this random to get the hell off of your property.
Actually, that was perfect.
"Would you care to get the hell off of my property?" You spoke sternly, attempting to threaten him with your considerably less threatening presence.
"Ugh," he groaned and reached under the eyesore of a stained purple dressing gown to pull out a fucking gun. "Shut your mouth and point me to your nearest medkit." He demanded, promptly pointing the pistol at your head. Well, that was polite.
Seeing that you'd rather not die tonight, you cautiously walk past him and grab your medicine box from under the kitchen counter. You hand it over, because god it looks like he needs it, and anxiously watch him tear at the plaster gauze and wrap around his arms effortlessly.
"Damn, that strength though." You said, aloud for some reason. God fucking damn it- you spend a couple months isolated from the world and suddenly you can't remember how to keep thoughts inside your brain. The dude on your couch let out a raucous laugh and placed the gauze back.
"You know it, hon." Was the response, making you die a little on the inside. He picked out the remainder of the bottle of rubbing alcohol and uncapped it without a single sense of fear in his body. Terrifying.
"Oh, I wouldn't-" You start, trying to convince him not to mend that massive shoulder wound on his own like some kind of madman, only for him to down the bottle bottoms-up. "Ah. Oh..."
This guy wiped his mouth and chortled, "Got an issue, pal?" Then pulled out a bag of some nondescript fast food takeaway. Christ, how many things can he hide in that thing?
"No, not really." You said, wanting to interject an 'aside from the fact you're in my home' but deciding against it for good health, "I just didn't know that rubbing alcohol was edible... Consumable? Edible. That thing." He looked at you with raised eyebrows, unfaltering and judgemental. (Or at least you thought it was a judgemental look, it was hard to tell with a poker face and sunglasses.)
He shrugged and bit into a cold cheese stick. Gross! Looking at the general state of him though, not that surprising. He had to be homeless or some shit to acquire this much grime on his clothes. In that moment of silence between the two of you where all that could be heard was the dog's wagging tail and the occasional grinding sound of this greying dude's jaw. You took the opportunity to close the trailer's damaged door again, lest any more injured weirdos decide you were a hotel for the murderous. He let out an uncomfortable moan-- uncomfortable for you, not him- as he finished his meal.
"Mmhm, that hit the spot..."
"So..." You said, turning back to give him a once-over and speaking as softly as possible, "Put the gun away now?"
"Hm? Oh shit, yeah." He stumbled and reached back to put the weapon back in its holster. "Don't get wise though, this baby has more firepower than you'd expect." Yeah, you weren't going to try and test that out in the first place.
"What's your dog called, man?" You decided this probably wasn't the weirdest thing that could have happened, so might as well get a good conversation out of it before your probable demise.]
"Champ. I wouldn't get too close though, y'know, if you value your life or whatever else."
"Does he usually look this murderous?"
"Oh yeah, absolutely." His tone made you question whether he was joking or not. You'd known this man for a minute and with every second he proves to be more and more of an enigma. You wouldn't consider yourself normal by any means, but still, what the fuck is this man's game? You could take the last four words of that question to make it more apt.
"Is it cool if I grab a drink?" You asked, and he peered over his glasses with some confusion.
"This is your home, isn't it? I don't give a damn."
"Yeah, yeah. Right." You can't believe you had to be reminded about that fact. Nobody could blame you for treating him like a feral animal that could snap at any time, because in a sense that is exactly what he was. Grabbing a drink and sitting on top of the counter you watched each other, strangely captivated. "Are you going to be okay?"
"Awe," He drawled in that deep voice, "You worried about me, hot stuff?"
It was difficult to not roll your eyes at the dumb attempt at flirtation from a guy that looks about 50.
"I'm worried about you staying here for more than a night and stinking up the place. But yeah, let's go with that."
"Haha! No, I'll be fine, thanks." He stood up to stretch, as if to prove it, only to grab his shoulder wound and double over with a "FUCK!" to accompany. "God, that's going to be sore tomorrow."
"More than sore-" You added, "You look like you took a sledgehammer to the torso." He grinned at you slightly, glasses askew enough to see him wince.
"Gee, thanks, kid." Something irked you about being called 'kid' into your late 20s, but you had more important things to focus on. Like human decency.
"I don't know why you stumbled into the outskirts of the town instead of going to the hospital, but you can stay here for a bit- if you need it." God, what were you saying?! Something in you was so perplexed and captivated by this dude that you acted without thinking. "I mean, fuck, I don't have a car but I do know how to stitch you up. And then you'll be out of my hair when you heal, deal?"
"Deal." He reached out his palm and you reluctantly took it, shaking to seal it. He had a steel grip on your hand. "You're a weird one, ya know that?"
"Yeah, whatever, man." You laughed, surprisingly genuine despite the circumstances. You could cope with this dude for a few days, right?
You turned your body to grab a beer from the mini-fridge and picked up the newspaper you had yet to read today. The front title, in bold letters, read: 'THE MASS MURDERER KNOWN AS THE 'POSTAL DUDE' HAS GONE MISSING. IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION REGARDING HIS WHEREABOUTS PLEASE CONTACT 911.' And there was a blurry picture attached below.
Oh, for fucks sake.