Worn Skin

In a city pulsating with neon glow and hidden shadows, Deadman, a man consumed by self-loathing, teeters on the brink of oblivion. Haunted by a past he can barely recall and a present he despises, he seeks an end on a bridge railing. But an unexpected encounter—and a stray bill—ignites a flicker of something he thought long dead: hope, fueled by the most primal of human desires. Can a simple piece of paper truly save a soul adrift in the urban abyss, or is it merely a fleeting delay on his inevitable path to ruin?

Two feet, one prosthetic and one flesh, balanced precariously on the railing of an old bridge. Below, the city glowed, a psychedelic canvas of neon signs melting into a 'midnight rainbow' against the shifting smog. The air thrummed with the anticipation of thousands, a bubbly effervescence of desperate fun and impending mayhem.

But the man on the railing, a silhouette that seemed to suck in all available light, was an island of silence in the city's roar. He was Deadman, a ghost in a machine he wished would finally switch off. His life was a litany of regrets, his memories a sharp ache in his chest. He hated hating himself, yet was helpless to stem the tide of self-loathing that piled ever higher.

He had climbed onto the rail, not out of courage, but exhaustion. The frigid wind whipped around his artificial ankle and through his dirty trench coat, mirroring the cold indifference of the city's 'heart.' He willed himself to jump, to finally embrace the unconsciousness that had always been his only joy, but his body stubbornly refused, his hands clinging to the light pole behind him with an almost pathetic desperation.

"You can do this!" he urged himself, momentarily letting go, only for his body to snatch back its hold. Suicide, he thought, was supposedly selfish, yet who would mourn him? His life was a burden, a continuous annoyance. Why not end it?

Then, a new sound cut through the urban cacophony: a rhythmic 'click-clack.' It wasn't in his head. It was the approach of another. Deadman, bracing for the inevitable Samaritan, turned slowly on the rail. His mumbled cry of hopelessness died on his lips.

Worn Skin

Psychological Urban Noir Self-Discovery survival Body Modification