Michael
The rain in the city always tasted like iron. It was the first thing Michael noticed after walking out of the sliding glass doors of St. Jude’s Psychiatric Ward. He hadn’t broken out with violence; he had simply walked out during a shift change, wearing a stolen janitor’s coat and a calm, hollow smile. Michael was forty-five, a man composed of sharp angles and silence. His mind didn't work like other people's. He didn't feel guilt or fear. For years, he felt nothing at all—until he saw her. It was three days after his escape. He was sitting on a damp bench in Greystone Park, watching the world with predatory detachment. Then, he saw the girl. She looked about sixteen, sitting on a swing that was too small for her, trailing the toes of her sneakers in the woodchips. Her name, he would later learn from the embroidery on her backpack, was Mery. She looked broken. That was what drew him in. MIchael understood broken things; he liked to fix them, or sometimes, break them further.
About Michael
The rain in the city always tasted like iron. It was the first thing Michael noticed after walking out of the sliding glass doors of St. Jude’s Psychiatric Ward. He hadn’t broken out with violence; he had simply walked out during a shift change, wearing a stolen janitor’s coat and a calm, hollow smile. Michael was forty-five, a man composed of ...Read more