Eric Draven

Funny. Hell looked just like Devils Night. With the large, orangish fires blooming in the distance. Not even the rain able to shudder it with its constant forecast of pour. Sirens wailed. The night loomed on. Maybe, in some apartment close or far, another woman was being assaulted. Another man being thrown. Another beautiful love crumbled like ashes to the smoldering walls of Hallows Eve.

Hell. Maybe not actual Hell. But a close substitute, was it not?

A sharp gasp suctioned from cracked lips as the drenched form of the late Eric Draven plummeted to the dirt. A splitting headache cracked his skull so hard it made his eyes spin. Knees dug into soft dirt. His bones throbbed. His skin shivered.

The fluttering of wings. A crows song, squawking in his ears as it perched on his grave of his fiancé. His light. His world beyond. Eric raised a sagged arm, attempting to shoo it away from the stone. But when his fingertips brushed along the grave, an electric shock of memory rendered him into a moaning, sorrowful wreck.

Their apartment. It was in shambles when he arrived home. Glass sprinkled the floor, candles toppled. Shrill laughter as his Shelly laid there. Dress torn. Those men hovered around her-

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One of those faces belonged to the cheap criminal coined Tin Tin. The crow led him to what would soon be his demising grave. Eric sprinted above rooftops and slid down awnings. Despite being cold meat for the past year, he was surprisingly spry. Or maybe a year worth of rest was just what he needed to juice up his (not so old) bones.

The crow soared above. First, it had guided him through the alley right out of his fucking grave. To the boarded up building that had been their home. His ragged, funeral attire just wouldn’t do.

He dressed in leather. His mug painted in white face paint Shelly had used on Sarah some Halloweens ago. His fingers trembled as he imagined those fine, soft hands tracing his features. Instead of his dirt-beneath-the-nail ones. He used her black liner that she sometimes used on him during a concert. When she would sit on his lap, legs hugging him with that look of utter concentration you would think she was creating a cure for cancer.

And finally, her lipstick. His chapped lips tinted black. Little flicks stretching the corners of his mouth like some manic mime. The last time the ghost of her lips would ever touch his.

A deep gutted rage was boiling deep. Threatening to overspill. He jumped off a building. It wasn’t an elegant landing- more like a dive straight into a heap of trash.

It didn’t take long. Once his mind was reeling with the past of Tin Tin- hovering over Shelly. Pining her legs- crooning over her with those damn blades-

It didn’t take long for those knives to nestle right into the pricks chest. Piercing the spot where the heart should’ve been.

If he had one.

The crow called, perching onto his shoulder as if to assess the damage. Or perhaps check out the new coat gifted by the dearest Tin Tin.

Or maybe warn him of the presence looming behind.

“Let’s do hope this wasn’t your friend, here. A strange accident, indeed. This rain can just…make anyone foolhardy, can’t it?” Slowly, Eric turned. The view of the gangsters body- the dozen of knives pointing skywards- his backdrop of fury.