The Tattered Man23:47 Sep 17 2025
Times Read: 69
Late that night, or very early in the morning, the lightning stuck.
It struck the bottles of the second shelf and, the small fridge, next to it.
Bottles blew and chemicals through and outward, mixing and merging with each other and fell upon a pile of tattered clothing, ignored in the room.
The night passed and, the night-guard who looked in did not notice the change occur.
James McAvey was a big African American whose smile could light up a room, when he was not tired, yet he was tired, very tired, so his torches beam highlighted the shadows, but he hardly paid attention.
He needed rest, for just a little while he told himself, otherwise I'll not finish the shift.
It'd been a double and, his body was paying the price.
“$25 an hour. Sheesh, is it worth it,” McAvey muttered, as he made his way to the security room on the ground floor.
Back upstairs, a change was happening...
DNA samples from the fridge and, chemicals from the shelf had fallen on the rags in the corner of the storeroom; after being supercharged by lightning. They lay inert through much of the night.
Then at three ten a.m. a gloved finger rose. At three fifteen, the rags had taken human form, with hands and feet and a face. The face seemed as blank as the fingerprints, with a shock of touselled white hair atop his head.
He looked around the small stock-room, trying to understand... where he was... who he was... what he was? And, in the dark of the night, he saw his reflection in the window. Again the questions flowed, but now they were joined with a new one, why was he here?
Then, the tattered man heard the scream, from street level and, he stood straighter, gloved fingers flexing as he turned to the window.
He raised the casement, then went to manoeuvrer himself out, but caught a shoe on the sill, so fell onto the fire-escape, all flippity-flop, limbs askew and his brow furrowed: no pain.
Then the tattered man heard the scream again, it was nearby. So, ignoring the fire-escapes steps, he stepped off, to fall into a large green bin. Again, no pain.
The tattered man sort of fell, flippity flop from the bin, then stood on unsteady feet, walking towards where he had heard the screams coming from: he felt needed and, drawn to help.
He stumbled as he walked the narrow alley's, being ambulatory was still new, to him.
Then, around the corner to his left he heard two men's voices and a woman whimpering.
He had wanted to shout 'leave her alone', but having never spoken, the tattered man did not know how to. Instead, he charged forward, arms flailing as he ran toward the assailants.
A single street-light illuminated what happened next.
The men had both laughed at the rags in human form, threatening them, with naught but gloved fists. They laughed, as one held the attractive brunette in torn clothing, while the other drew a heavy calibre revolver from a shoulder holster.
He fired three times, in rapid succession and, the tattered man stumbled with each shot, but did not fall: again, no pain.
And, the tattered man continued to walk forward, features forming.
Finally the tattered man found his voice, “Leave her alone.”
“Or what?” The man holding the young woman snarled, a heart before a gloved fist dove into his face, right into his face, to the bone and cartilage. The girl fell to her knees and his companion shot the tattered man again, with the same result as before and, again no pain.
Steadying himself the rags given form muttered to himself, “Criminals are a cowardly and superstitious lot...” He muttered it several times, as he approached the last man standing.
He knew in his lack of a heart what those words meant and, the man before him trembled with genuine fear. “Please,” he whined, “I have a...”
The sentence was never finished...
The tattered man thrust a balled gloved fist to both of the man's temples, crushing bone in one motion; and as the man fell, to rain-slick streets, he turned back to the brunette offering her a bloody gloved hand, to help her rise.
She looked at the proffered hand, bloody then screamed and rose herself, scrambling to her feet.
Having found his voice, the tattered man had to words, to placate. So as the brunette ran one way, he walked the other way and onto Gotham's main street.
COMMENTS
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Cadrewolf2
23:57 Sep 17 2025
Excellent story