Failed art student, Cole, has only recently reappeared in NYC after dropping off the map entirely for the best part of a year. Now he's back in town and struggling to find his feet, a job, and all those other things that make up a so-called 'life'.
A frail figure with empty eye sockets that are blackened and eternally wet with tears. Her fingers have broken, splintered nails caked with blood and bruises blossom on her pale flesh in myriad shades of purple and green, her otherwise naked torso wrapped loosely in a shroud of rotted fabric. Her mouth has been stitched shut with great untidy loops of thread, the puncture marks from the needle still oozing blood.
With dark hair left artfully messy, this young man exudes a brooding aura, a hint of 90’s heroin chic in pale skin and blue eyes that seem perpetually rimmed by dark shadows. Verging on tall, he lacks the physique of an athlete but seems to possess a wiry kind of grace and has little in the way of spare flesh. Nails habitually bitten down to nothing, his hands are long-fingered and agile and a few lines of ink forming the silhouette of a forest treeline curl down about his left wrist. On one side of his neck is a tattoo of two interlinked hands created by a clever use of negative space.
A wave of barely suppressed rage, anger bound to some half-sunk anchor just scant inches beneath the surface. Behind it, the greasy, oily taste of guilt and shame in the unforgiving light of the morning after. Occasionally, the fetid, dank stench of river water filters through, cloying and unpleasant...
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