𝘀𝗵𝗼𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗶𝗹𝗹 ✓ 𝖙. 𝖘𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖇𝖞

── 𝐢. 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘂𝗲

── 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘂𝗲 ──

The sullied streets of Birmingham were, and always would be, soaked in death. Cobblestone caked thick with the lost lives of the innocent and guilty alike, spilt crimson blood dripping feverishly through the scum and slim cracks to forever stain the pebbles that would house their spirits. Not even the glass-like rain could wash away the ghosts, still lost, still roaming the city confused and alone, calling out their goodbyes to families who'd never know. Footsteps rendered silent by the whispering veil that kept them from the land of the living, Josephine and Benjamin Murphy cried out for their daughter who'd been orphaned by two well-aimed bullets and one filthy bastard.

───────────────

The stream of customers had slowly dwindled till the bar was empty and only the stink of spilled liquor and vomit lingered close by, it always seemed to be the same on a sunday evening. The religious rested as god commanded on the sabbath day and the others were one of two things; getting into some kind of trouble or preparing to fend for their families the next day. A whiskey on the rocks with few acquaintances from the local bar was often brushed aside in that certain establishment. If the people of Small Heath wanted a rowdy evening where they could forget every responsibility they had, the Garrison was the place to be, not a family run tavern where prostitutes weren't even allowed.

Sharply whistling an unrecognisable melody, Benjamin's steady hands took a somewhat clean rag from the pocket of stained apron that rested over his dress pants and fiddled with it. For a moment he simply took in the state of his business, the edges of his mouth curling downwards into a frown with his soft tawny curls seeming to deflate in disappointment. It was more trouble than it was worth.