Night has fallen
The man in the mask picks his way down the street
Dodging drug sick junkies
The sweet caress of a corner prostitute
An offered beer
Listening as the sirens creep closer
Chasing him home

He stares at the world through tiny slits
Shielding his scars from the light
His smile forced
Nothing more than a grimace of pain
His very existence, agony
Breathing
The stab of hundreds of tiny swords
He shudders

The fetid water
Copper tinged and racing towards the drain
Carries her reflection
Shimmering skin, pale beneath the moonlight
He curses the task half done
Licks the blood from his iron blade
Continues on
The memory of failure his companion in the night

In the gutter
Her face again
Lapis eyes, golden hair dancing with light
Silken and fine spun as a spider’s web breaking in his hands
Tearing away in chunks
Leaving pinpricks of blood, bald patches to reflect the moon
It raced
Viscous life’s blood spilled by his hand, following him

Kneeling in the muck
Fingers in the flow
He tastes her stolen life
Rolling the filth of the city in his mouth
like wine, savoring it
Her blood, her skin
Flavored with lavender and chamomile
Spring apples and fresh rain

Face down in the gutter
He loses his mask
Exposing the scars, the drooping lips, the face like clay
Her essence washes against him
Filling the gaps
Smoothing the puckered places
Erasing the blackened skin till he stands whole and smooth again

Another masquerade
He lives
One more day
Parading as normal
Free from the curse that returns with darkness
Hunting
With an iron blade
The golden haired fey who cursed him