A painful letter was wedged tightly in the clasp of my own numb hands. A piece of plain parchment, that bared the most horrid handwritten words. Words threatening my life — revealing my upcoming death.
"You can't just sit here all day," sympathetically declared Emmett Beckett.
A rather compassionate man from the outside. I must admit, he shields his true self remarkably ripping. I would never reveal him, only to you. He's a ghost, or rather, entity from my imagination, so he says. He follows me. Helps me. Humiliates me. Of course, he does "leave" from time to time. He explained that he has his own affairs to tend to. Whatever those might be.
My focus remained unfaltering from my clamped palms. I plainly mumbled, "Don't underestimate my ability to idle."
He saw right through me. Emmett scoffed with curved brows, "More like destructing you mentally, my friend."
Salty tears brimmed in my glossy eyes. I steadily turned my gaze towards the person standing behind the stone marble bench. My expression was turned with fear and dejection. "What do you expect? I'm going to be murdered!"
Emmett stared down with pity as his legs carried him right beside me. He shook his head with a low whisper, "It isn't certain yet."