Frank felt himself freeze, then chided himself for his word choice. How much colder, after all, could a fucking ghost get? But what had stopped him in his tracks, though green mists didn’t leave fucking tracks, was the sight of a woman…one Frank thought he recognized…stabbing a man in the neck with the broken-off stiletto heel of a shoe. Jugular? Frank knew exactly what that felt like, as he watched the man’s green eyes go wide. Vaguely he remembered some other man put something over the woman’s nose that closed her eyes, but apparently not fast enough to stop what must have been a reflexive defense mechanism that got the wrong man. But Frank hadn’t been paying attention then, and he was still struggling to get used to this 360-degree vision that seemed to see both everything and nothing.
Now that he concentrated he could see that the man who’d knocked the woman out…with chloroform most likely, knowing his ways…was none other than his crazy partner Alex!
But Frank didn’t care really, didn’t really give a flying fuck at all anymore, and…what?…flowed?…oozed?…certainly didn’t walk on. Alex, after all, wasn’t the one in danger.
All Frank knew or cared about was that for one, brief moment he’d been startled out of thinking about Karen. But now he paid for that heavily as it all came crashing back down on him like an avalanche of pain. Martin. She’d eaten, admittedly by mistake, Frank’s life’s blood and all she could think about was Martin.
Frank had sworn to himself that he would never again flow/ooze/whatever-the-fuck back to Karen in that storage unit. He had sworn to himself that he no longer cared if that Shakespearean nobody lured her into death. Fantasies of her ghost…scared, unable to adjust to 360-degree sight…seeking him out only to have him pretend he didn’t know she was there felt so very, very good. At least that’s what he kept fucking telling himself, while the stomach he no longer had clutched.
Where was he? Maybe he could distract himself by finding a mugging, or a drug deal, or something.
The Storage Space. He could still make it out in the distance. All this time. All this fucking time. He could go anywhere: Europe, Asia, the moon. But, no. He’d just been going around and around in circles, orbiting the fucking Storage Space.