GRIT

Grit.

A word of words. A look, a sensation, a thought – one that defined this place. A place in between worlds. A reverberating sound, ricocheting off any conceivable angle, but remained stagnant like a sour stench. A perfect descriptor. The word – thought – it stuck in the back of the throat (mind), pointed and austere, but dirty with skewed lines and filth encrusted around the edges.

Imagine:

Brick buildings. Dark and toned down, decaying in the cold afternoon air. You would not know the time of day, however, for the sun did not hit this place. A place in between worlds. A scent hung in the air, clinging to the lungs as they breathed. It was defined by its space, this space of lost souls and deranged – something. Somethings that had no names.

Inhale. The lungs burned.

There was no huss and bussle like you'd see in the day to day world. Just a dirty street, and a dreary sort of silence that echoed painfully down the alley. The lines of dirty brick walls messed and blurred with the cracking cobblestone walkway, its narrowness amplified by the tall buildings made with unfathomably small distances between them. It was almost peaceful – in a sinister kind of way. The awkward time when someone stumbled across this place. A place in between worlds.

Exhale.

The Dead Time. A puff of smoke appeared and disappeared. There is a man, if the thing could be called such. Tall and wiry, unkempt and strange. He was pale and bony, with sharply defined facial features – pointed lips, a distinct nose, heavy cold eyes that rested below black-black brows. Jaw line sharp and angular, masculine in its form. His hair was short, black, and cut close to the head. This man, he will not be named for in this place no names existed. A place in between worlds. He sat. Sitting against the indistinct line between wall and ground, knees bent, long brown jacket covering his body. A waste of life.

Inhale.

They were not his, the boots he could hear in the distance, heavy and large. The only sound in this place. A place in between worlds. He stared, the jagged edges of the alleyway were inspiring, smeared with grime and falling to pieces. It's age showing through the decaying and crumbling surfaces. Black and brown, burnt oranges, and rusty reds, muted washed out colors dulled down by poor lighting, and heavy shadows.

Exhale.

Rats. Figuratively, literally, they both scoured. They scampered across the blank page, the black alley, dozens of them, their nails scratching and clawing at anything that would dare to get in the way. They thrived in this place. A place in between worlds.

Silently.

Heavy boots drew nearer, perhaps carrying a man, perhaps not. Inhale. Rats. Exhale. Smoke. Time slowed, skewing to the side, ticks, and tocks, and numbers, and lines all sliding, shifting downward, upward, onward, offward. It scattered and stuck in the same breath. Time was and wasn't in the same moment in this place. A place in between world.

Inhale.

A poor man and a rich man in the same place. "Sickle for the hungry?" The fallen man said mutely to the almost familiar figure that stood within the heavy boots in front of him. An exchange of words. Laughter. It was a deep, throaty sound. Rumbling out from the pit of his stomach into the empty space between the two men. The sitting man leaned back further against the cold of the brick behind him, head resting lightly over the rough surface to stare up at the other man. Mister Boot Wearer. Mister Velvet and Silk. His gaze held on the proud and intense figure with blank eyes and felt nothing. Not in the place. A place in between worlds. Inhale. Exhale. Puff of Smoke.

Words.

He grinned. Grinned the grin of Assuming Men; a look off-put on his face. Another rat. He made no bother to meet the Mister's height by standing. He made no bother to regard him any differently than he had the wall he had been looking at moments before the man had come into view. No, this man, this Mister, was just another prop in this place.

A place between worlds.