Running away, give into the night, it is your only haven.
The moon poured down its creamy glow between cracks in the cloudy night sky, searching for something important. Like a beacon from a lighthouse tower, it relented it's warmth over the snowy river, offering a sense of something beyond the changing water levels and forever moving pungently morbid flotsam. Alcohol sinking in, it allows his mind to wander from caution. The moon elongates the shadows, making it difficult for him to recognize safety amongst the evil.
He feels no fear of darkness, but an inner sense told him the clouds could no longer hold inside, a terrible pain. The moon was too beautiful tonight. Nothing horrible could happen when beauty has a hold of your soul. Everything seemed to be in denial of its perfection. The moon seduced him with its light, enticed him, but was not able to capture him and take him to its warm inner surface. That's when he realized that nothing in this night was out of place or blasphemous; except for him. The only intrusion in this calming, serene night; was himself. At that thought, a helicopter rotors’ catch the fullness of the moon, a bright light flashes into his eyes, flicking between the nooks and alleys of the town.
Henson Salt remains unnerved as the spotlight shines on his face. He sit cool on his ledge of the bridge he is beneath. He breathes in the air, catching the faint smells of a restaurant nearby while he rubs the raw slab of flesh on the back of his neck; where his life used to be. Still sore and groggy from last nights operation in a repugnant hotel, with what Salt acclaimed to the doctor as “5 star accommodation” as he stepped on a cockroach. After he awoke, naked on the kitchen countertop, he was handed a handkerchief to wipe away any access blood and a bottle of vodka.
“It is morphine” slurred the doctor in broken English. “Drink”
Henson unscrewed the cap, took a giant swig, and started to feel somewhat better.