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There was blood under his nails- and in his hair, and there- smeared just beneath his jaw.
Gerry could feel it caked in, burning to the quick of his fingertips and flaking off against his jacket when he turned his head.
It felt like he was always turning his head anymore. Waiting for another fire to start, another page to flutter, another ghost to haunt.
He flicked the remains of a cigarette lazily to the ground below, uncaring of where it fell as it was wet enough that even he might struggle to start a blaze. (He can't remember the last time he struggled for a spark and yet he Knows that anything out tonight wouldn't catch worth a damn).
Gerry scolded himself for finding the thought a comfort before shuffling his way inside, shoulders dropping from where they had unconsciously risen to shield his neck from the cold. He had scarves for that thing, after all (there was no one left to remind Gerry that they would work better if he would remember to wear them).
He exhaled slowly, tipping his head back and letting his eyes close for just a moment as the door shut behind him. He revelled in the dull buzz of too much nicotine and too little food, the familiar ache settling into a friendly sort of vertigo.
His stomach twisted with a special sort of nausea, one that spoke of swirling anxieties and the echo of scolding raised voices. He almost laughed at the thought that his mother didn't even need to pop into being to remind him he was a disappointment, he was trained so well he did that shit for himself.
He kicked his boots off at the door, leaving them strewn haphazardly as he locked up and wandered towards his miniscule kitchenette, pouring what he approximated to be two shots of whiskey (with a generous hand) and knocking them back before heading to his shower.
He checked his throat and shoulder where the thing had grabbed him, noting with some satisfaction that the scratches weren't deep enough to warrant either stitches or a bandage. He soaked them in antiseptic before stepping under the hot spray, rinsing off the grit and mud that the rain hadn't washed away in his earlier flight.
He had a plane to book and another book to burn, if his sources turned out to be right. Gerry wished the thought brought him more comfort as he rolled himself in his duvet to ward off the chill that his paper thin wall did nothing to quell. He closed his eyes and wished for dreamless sleep.
The eyes along his knuckles and throat fluttered, twitched, and opened in the quiet still of the darkness, hungry gazes intent on bringing their host only terror in his rest.