The river made a slight gulping noise as it lapped the embankment, it’s waters glittering in the late September sun. There was a slight chill in the air, a crispness to the breeze, that spoke of the coming winter. So fucking cold. Blake pulled his worn jacket tighter around himself, and turned away from the river, leaning against the low stone wall. To have the flat, or to not have the flat - that was the question. He knew that he’d far outstayed any safety there might have been. No, he’d have to leave, and not just because that strange man had come knocking.
Around him, London bustled, people ambling, running, cycling, waving for cabs, or just standing. There was something comfortable about being part of a crowd again, of being a part of London, blending into the mass of humanity. Yet, he could feel the glances, pitying, wondering, repulsed; even if he no longer looked apparently homeless, he still suffered it’s physiological effects. Rail thin, pale pallor, dark circles around his eyes, that tired, racking cough - a wound walking.
He reached into his pocket for the last cigarettes he had, lit one. Smoking was the only vice he was letting himself indulge in nowadays, all the drinking and drugs thrown away in exchange for lucidity. It had been a week since he’d moved into the flat, but he’d not left it for anything except food or work - until now. Now he half-leaned, half-sat on the thick wall that separated the walk from the free air and rolling river, trying to think of answers - and finding none.
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