calamity / dreamnotfound

Wind

George followed Clay into a classic Orlando neighborhood—the sidewalks were scarred with cracks, road signs either missing or bent, and low houses populating the streets with drawn curtains. Overgrown trees provided shade and cooled the chilly air.

The house they stopped at blended in with the scenery perfectly. The squatty home was painted a cream color and faded from the Florida sun, bushes and grass growing wildly in the front yard. The pair were quiet, and George looked up at Clay expecting a preface of the character they were about to meet, but Clay stared silently ahead at the chipped tan door.

A brush of wind caused George to pull his jacket around himself, and Clay finally spoke. "Nobody has ever come with me to these things before, so I don't really know how he will act." It was not the comforting words George would have liked to hear.

Why was he coming along? From a business standpoint, all he really needed to judge was the price Clay spent on product and distribution, meeting a supplier was not necessary. Still, he felt needed in a different way that went beyond advising. He was here to observe, but what was it that Clay wanted him to see?

The house was merely a mask—on the other side of the door, the "home" transformed into a barren, empty shell. The air was thick and still, with scarce furniture in each room. It appeared as if interior walls had been removed, as the whole house was "open concept". Their entrance went unnoticed by the house's occupants, as nearly all of them seemed to be stoned out of their mind or in hushed conversation.

The feeling of walking on the beige, matted carpet with his shoes on unnerved George, and he reluctantly followed Clay through the strange obstacle course of cardboard boxes and trash, until finally a break into what was at some point a living room.

White afternoon light flooded the empty room from the far window made the outline of a tall man leaning on a bar stool dramatically clear. He had a chiseled jawline and curly hair, and had a hand placed flat against another man's chest, whispering intently in his ear. George could see a bag full of white powder hooked between his fingers.

Clay cleared his throat and the man lazily turned to their direction, dropping his hand into his pocket, the white bag slipping out of sight. His silhouette's posture changed into a confident and lanky pose, one that George didn't think possible on a stool. "Pleasant surprise!" He called across the barren house in a booming voice. "Oh, do I ever wonder why you're here."

"Sounds like you already know," Clay gritted through his teeth. His face hardened unkindly. "I need another shipment this week,"

"So, it's true then," Eret stood up from his chair, striding confidently toward the pair. The light from the previous room lit his features. Despite towering at over 6'3, he glided in clunky black platform boots that pushed him up a few more inches. His hair was almost as dark as his eyes, his jaw stern. "I mean, I heard Blossom's boys made you their chew toy, but I can tell that much from looking at your face. What a shame..."

Eret reached out and dragged his finger along Clay's cheekbone, following the bottom curve of the defined bruise. His nails were painted a glossy black.

Clay's face was as still as a soldier's and he stared at Eret challengingly. "It was an oversight."

"I'll say," Eret replied in a rich voice, his finger now dropping to Clay's lips. Something wretched in George's stomach. At a moment's contact, Clay tilted his jaw away from him, averting his eyes and shifting his weight.

"I-I can afford it, could you please just—"

"You would do well to look at me when speaking!" Eret screamed, his finger turning into a fist around Clay's chin and forcing his head forward. His voice vibrated the walls--George was sure the police would be called.