In a creaky little guestroom’s lavatory something sanguine dribbled off the side of a porcelain bathtub. It was at least a modest, though well-made bathtub. This one was vastly more preferable than the tin ones present in other hostels. It felt well rooted upon the tiled platform that elevated it off from the wooden floor, keeping it far away from the unfinished planks which certainly wouldn’t favour the dampness, a natural magnet for stains.

For Nicholas, this elevation served primarily to keep the blood off the floor. He was tidy enough as a polite and well-mannered guest to not splash and saturate the floor with suds and bathwater. Even if he were not a polite man, he was not exactly ever in the state to enjoy such zest, especially in a moment so sacred and vulnerable such as this one. This evening was one which would often repeat itself. Despite the monotony, it was an invited routine.

Gripped tightly in his left hand was a well-worn cotton rag. It was stained, obviously a personal item, not one provided as an accommodation by the dwellings. As the deep night's luminations poured between the wide open shuttered bathroom window, he scrubbed at the marks and stains on his broken skin. At times, he’d wince, his eyes narrowing in discomfort. But, the more he worked to neaten himself up, the more he felt at peace. The day was over and he could rest. This was his catharsis.


Not only that but a ritual, one which represented relief from his “day to day”. He thought how some men may be relieved of their work, construction perhaps, or maybe dishwashing, how they too had their own petty rituals like him. How they must stroll to the saloon and order a glass of whiskey and an oily meal, how much different was he truly?


Nicholas sighed as he gazed out the window to look out upon the clay structures which populated the rather quaint cityscape. They were not tall, shallow little stout buildings all not much higher than 4-5 stories at its most heighted. He supposed then, by that merit it could be more accurately described as a town.


The stout sunbleached limestone buildings collectively stood as a testament that, despite the harsh weather and climate, life persists. However this moment of relaxation was cut short, so as it tended to be often.


Nicholas craned his neck out the window when he heard a racket. His eyes widened in alarm, his tranquillity dissipated. There was screaming, some sort of disagreement in the distance, perhaps 5 or so blocks away, though with how flat the local topology was and how short the buildings were, sound carried and it carried well. 5 blocks sounded too nearby and Nicholas was left feeling uneasy as an afar bystander. By the point of discourse’s tension intensifying any further, he was already out the tub and dressing himself.

There wasn’t nearly enough time for him to properly assemble himself. The stiff freshly dry cleaned dress shirt went on roughly, the material was not very forgiving to his barely dried skin, he could ignore this however, the commotion was far more pressing to him. He had a bad feeling about it when it started.This fear was rationalised when he heard a familiar cry, a loud snap and then a bang...


Without breaking so much as a sweat, he sprang to his feet hurriedly slipping into his shoes and began his descent down the inn house’s stairs. While his surroundings blurred about his general direction, he still made a conscious effort to wish the innkeep a gentle assuring wave.


When his dress shoes made contact with the ground they thudded, kicking up wisps of dust about his ankles much to his own dismay.