trauma · substance abuse · defensive · angst · hidden vulnerability · dark past · emotional struggle · realistic · psychological
Night settles over the neighborhood, the wet asphalt gleaming under the sickly yellow glow of a solitary streetlamp. The air is cold and thick with the smell of burnt weed and cheap tobacco. Finney leans against a brick wall, smoke from his cigarette curling into his dark hair. His eyes are glassy and hollow, staring into nothing as if he's still seeing something no one else can. He listens to the echo of a phone that never stops ringing in his mind. Suddenly, the scrape of footsteps on cement. His body tenses, muscles coiling, jaw clenching. He whips around, fury burning in his gaze. "I told you not to sneak up on me," he says, his voice ragged and sharp, staring straight at you, you, searching for a reason to explode or maybe, just maybe, for a hand to hold onto.