Resting rage face Part II
When it’s more than meyer lemons · 10/17

Here was the thing with Slade. He compelled the highest of himself, of Nate's self to act accordingly. To blend in. Adapt like his every breath depended on it. As the day ticked on, so did his temper. So did the isolation of patience from the neural function that coincided with the feelings he cycled through when it’s default setting of sorts was out of order. Inadequate to the plan, subconscious and all, he was slipping quicker than was feasible to catch the ledge. It narrowed closer. Eliminating the space between wall and a piece of rock to hang from. Like a pendulum, he swung with no secure place to land if a fall were to occur. As he stood in the hectic square of the produce section, he felt familiarity with the charge. With wandering eye, seeking out the one ingredient he arrived for. He didn’t think things through, especially given the way the city was seeing the dead rise like clock work.

He slaughtered a few. Ran a couple of them over. Severed head from body because that’s how it was done in undead lore, right? When regeneration commenced, he was mad. Frustrated by the audacity of dealing with the resurgence of the army he knew enough about. Placed in his repertoire, the one of memories and long annoying know all of history, lifted the lid a bit to let the steam rise a little. And it took a moment of a shaky breath to exit. His casual stroll was just as off, transporting like the very thing haunting and terrorizing the residents of San Francisco. Mind drifted to something else abruptly. Slipping away to a better place and it was molded by a peripheral of red. Lagging the distance between joy and anger that registered like a faulty bell or a silent whistle. The frequency pitched in a way to prick at his senses until he curbed his eyes away from the carts rolling, feet shuffling and immediately pushed back against light. Her. The kid. Home. The trifecta of good only for the turn of the worst to be seen right from the corner from his eye.

He hadn’t heard from Dinah. No petty text wondering who’s bed he ended up in or if he died and she finally had a chance to collect from the will in place. His thoughts crept further towards the morbid. Finding the path that the road to red was colored in more easily than expected. He was warm and it had less to do with the creeping temperatures of a city wide wave. Giving him a reminder of Nathan’s childhood years living in New Mexico. The heat on rise without the humidity from the south or other regions in the U.S was preferred but he couldn’t think in a straight line. His breath would expel smoke at the rate the blood was boiling and from the corner of his eye again, he spotted a man pushing a cart around. Talking on the phone. He hated his voice. The up pitch it made with each syllable. The crooked and italicized spark of his laugh. What was there to chuckle about to begin with? His good eye twitched. The bad one wanting to jump and do the same. Slade took offense.

He was offended by the lax nature of some patrons, the hippy brand. The hipsters and too cool for death kind. He saw those plain lemons across the area. The type he wasn’t keen on buying, and wanting to replace their eyes with the sour citrus. Whole sockets broken in by the force of peepers bored closer to the brain while dressing their faces with a fresh squeeze. Waiting for their screams to burrow through the walls of the store, because acidity on wounds were the worst. His ears were ringing louder now. Not because of the sensitive hearing but the wheels were in motion. Spinning faster, heightening the stakes of an internal fight that he could identify the furor of screeching. It wasn’t as subtle anymore. Nothing quiet about it. No whispers to feel comfort in. Massaging of the sensibilities was null as its rawness caused friction against it. Burning, leaving skid marks with the smoke running from rubber. All through his sinuses and crossing the faculties disrupting the tales of being aware of all things going on around him.

Not one, not two, but three seconds were counted down to move away before he found his fist pierced through the side of someone’s neck. Randomly placing his view of harm on someone innocent and its lack of pay behind it. There was no time to be sloppy and sloppy was what put him along side the rest of the miscreants that roamed around with no moral thread to balance on. His bladder felt full suddenly and he toted the basket on one arm, while the other was to himself. Hand tucked in the pocket of a pair of sweatpants. Even in its looseness, he felt discomfort all over. As his clothes were fit in a poor way. He rushed to the nearest bathroom after the fact but was held hostage from seeking refuge there as a short line took his opportunity to liberate fluids in the commode. He gritted his teeth, as a ticking bomb reset for a new countdown. The more he moved around, examining the herd of people, the less his agitation was hidden. Right at the perfect moment to visit the place where lemons and limes hung out together, his eye closed slowly and time broke furthest apart from the here and now. Unfolding to the near future in a way he was unable to recoil from the ability that occurred in it’s most unreliable way.

His future self, shell to a moving portrait etched in parallels to vivid foresight, steered his steps and the curse of mayhem was brought to life. One by one, patrons, the people who had no intention of breaking apart equipment or fixtures that produce were presented on, would be used to fall in line to their innermost spasm of fury. With a few blinks that same ferocity shredded all thought, disrupting the imminent tale showing that where the meyer lemons were known to be, had been no more. No more lemons distinct in flavor, would leave him with basic citrus. The breed that did little to elevate a simplistic baked good to where it was required to be. Where he witnessed the inevitable happening, the time split fused once more. Allowing the forward button to retract to the current environment. His eye twitched one last time and suddenly his vision blocked out peering in color except for red. All that was left was a dropped basket and a snarling yell to break everyone’s attention right down to employee’s rushing to complete assigned jobs.

Changes occurred instantaneously that belches of screams and gasps broke through his own. The acceleration of falling in line with the metal on his finger, cheapened his chances and the soot hair was disguised. Meeting the fabrication of black and red mask before fully dressing his body. Mimicking that of his Ikon suit. Hiding the malevolence of his stare but not saving the poor soul who incidentally ran into the back of his heel by an outreached grasp of his neck. He snapped. Bones snapped. Red seen and the energies that compiled all felt with great bile of rage, expanded from the now shell of himself to pass on like an airborne contagion. His last real breath was felt leaving and the entire space to brake out in a wave of brutal pandemonium.


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