Warm conversation on a cool summer’s midnight,
Under the streetlights, the colors of sepia – an emotional unraveling.
Engrossed and lost in the company, we’re interrupted by a shriek from a face, pale white.
Crimson covered in dirt. Ragged & broken, he drags himself, his hair frazzling.
Adrenaline flush, we rushed to aid him on that cool summer’s midnight.
My jacket plugged his wounds, stopping the bloodied faucet in his hip
As she cradled his head and checked for life. A murmur, we hear, oh so light.
His voice strained, only to hear “Run”. I’m throat-lumped. The road beneath us started to rip.
A dark aura begins to cover the now-dead man, on that cool summer’s midnight.
Our bodies were frozen in place but his body now absorbed by the gravel.
Bloodied clothes, all that was left, and a gold locket – the streetlights shining it bright.
She picks it up, “This is obsidian. He was a broker.” her voice hushed by the river Havel.
– Ted
The Empathetic Drifter 