An uneventual week had turned Sunday into its latest victim and Myk decided he needed a new perspective on things. So, he did what any other crazy clown would do in this listless position; hung himself from a park bench. With his head lolling through the metal arch of the armrest and off the wooden struts of the seat, his hip-length white hair pooled onto the grass beneath. The silky white texture looked like swathes of cloth bundled on top of the grass and despite whatever insects thought it a good idea to make a home in such a new world, Myk remained as he was. Pewter eyes were focused on the world around him, on the city streets and its lonely denizens and occasionally on the heavens above. He liked to watch the skies, pick out the constellations he recognised from lazy Saturday nights when his father would drive them out into the countryside - just because. Those times were rare and their scarcity brought something beautiful to Myk’s quiet experiences. A small smile pulled at his red-stained lips, looking like a frown from the angle of his face, but it didn’t matter so much. Myk was alone and there was no one to bother him; even Rutherford had become like death lately - hiding silently in the background.Back-dated to April 26th
It was nice that it was so quiet. It was also awful. All this stillness didn’t bode well for the Telepath and he crossed his arms atop his chest, holding in a frustrated sigh. He was sure it would come out as a strange sound, a gripey noise much like an aggravated toddler because he very much felt like one; sulking over the same damn problems and expecting things to change. Things had changed, of course they had, but in very much the same way, things had not changed at all. He was still lonely and brooding and finding nothing of value in chasing these fade fractures about. He’d hoped that Mr Ripper might find it of interest to hunt down these mysterious things alongside him, but of course, all such hopes turned to dread when the reality struck him. Mr Ripper clung to his aloofness and Myk clung to his emptiness and self-pity. Of course Myk knew the pointlessness of it all, the worthlessness of holding onto something so tightly that it in turn strangled you, but that knowledge didn’t save him from the feeling.
Black-tipped and sharpened nails strummed an angry and impatient rhythm across pale, naked arms. He wasn’t cold, but perhaps he should have pretended he was. He should have dressed in something a little more concealing than a simple black vest top and skinny black jeans if he was going to blend in, but in hindsight he found the uselessness in that as well. Myk was tired of pretending to be anything but what he was and he was tired of this Masquerade that kept their community so strung. He could do little about it but sulk, but then he was invisible wasn’t he; he didn’t have to misuse this power. Being invisible, he could have done so many things - for good or for evil - and yet here he was, lying on a park bench feeling sorry for himself. Myk let that sigh loose, pushing the strangled breath out through his lips and watching the cold breath turn into a slight fog on the even colder air. He watched it disappear into the darkness of the heavens, then looked up at the stars directly over his head. “I wonder where Orion is,” he mumbled vacantly to himself.