Rustin Cohle in his shitty, empty house, contemplating photographs. (True Detective)
His long fingers tapped at his bare thigh; only boxers and a dirty wife beater covered his wiry frame as he sat in the lawn chair. Cohle felt slightly cold, a greasy layer of old sweat making the pads of his fingertips feel coated against his skin. He swallowed and breathed in through his nose again, the edges of his vision fuzzy as he contemplated the spread before him.
Talking to corpses. Rust Cohle was speaking to the dead.
Dee bees. The last record of their fleshy existence sanitized down to two letters. Rust rubbed a hand down his face and peered blearily down at the photos of the girls, all torn and slack-jawed, eyes sightless. Nostrils flaring, he caught the stale heat of their dying breaths.
"Who killed you?" he murmured as he plucked the soft pack from between his thighs. After he tapped out a smoke, he set it between his lips, teeth holding it in place. The flame kissed the end and the tip of his tongue touched the small white circle of dry filter.
He drew in a thick lungful of smoke and rubbed his eyes again. Two sleepless nights. More to come.
In the edge of his vision danced the shadow. Always dancing. Rust refrained from turning his head.
look daddeee... look...
He wasn't that man.
He was the bad man that kept bad men from the gates. A purgatory of life. His existence a glitch, a freak chance. Like all the rest.
So... what bad man had cut short the little lives spread out at his feet?
The girls would have to talk to him. Eventually.
