Chapter Text
It started out small at first, practically unnoticeable, in fact.
The Bad Weather had been practically empty that night, this part of New York had become a hotspot for crime, small gangs started popping up- mostly just teenagers looking for a thrill- but the real threat wasn’t the attempted muggings or the vandalism that plagued every street.
The real threat was the mafia.
No one knew how it started, but many speculated that it had been there since the 50’s, lot’s of rumours spread from the elders of that era, tales of blood and such but despite how long the group had supposedly been there the police never caught anyone, mostly because the police in this area were corrupt, sometimes because the few officers who tried to do something had been taken out. The only thing people knew for certain was that they were called the ‘Brotherhood’, and they were very, very dangerous.
Due to this, many people left the area, almost turning the city into a ghost town were the only people left were those too unfortunate enough to be able to leave or those who didn’t believe in the rumours.
So, Desmond had found himself alone this night- similar to how previous nights have gone- and serving an outstanding collection of nobody. He didn’t really care, he was getting paid either way, but a part of him was sad that he never got to talk to anyone, he didn’t have any friends and he cut contact with his family years ago, so the only company he ever really got was the pigeons that followed him around because he fed them.
His shift ended with very little disruption, allowing him to just lock up and make the walk back to his apartment complex.
It was dark-around 4am- the street lights either flickered or some just didn’t work at all given how the very small population meant that the government didn’t bother keeping everything up to date. Desmond didn’t mind, despite how run down everything was he never once felt unsafe, the people who lived here were either too afraid to run the risk of pissing off a gang member or were too busy with other things to care about bothering some random guy. Hell, even the drug addicts very friendly to him.
His apartment was a run down old place, cracked walls, plumbing issues and windows replaced with newspaper. His apartment was on the eighth floor, meaning he had to clamber up several flights of stairs- the elevator long since past it’s short lifespan. There weren’t many people renting here, so Desmond only actually had one neighbour-who he never met, but was pretty sure was a drug dealer- and maybe one or two people on the other floors. His landlady was nice enough, the only interaction he ever got most of the time, and just seemed happy to be able to rent to somebody.
He pulled out his keys, unlocked the rickety old door, having issues with the lock due to how flimsy it was, and was about to walk in when he paused.
There was a box there.
He picked it up, examining it. It was small, rectangular in shape, and very thin. The box was brown with a pristine white ribbon attached around it.
Odd
He paid it no mind, placing it back down on the floor assuming it was meant for his neighbour and walked into his apartment.
…
Something was off
Desmond had a little doormat in front of his door as he liked having something to protect his feet against the cold floor when he kicked his shoes off. He could swear that it was out of place, slightly tilted as if someone slipped on it.
He shrugged it off, he was probably just being paranoid. He changed out of his uniform which consisted of black dress pants and a white button up, which was too tight for him but he couldn’t really buy new clothes, and changed into his hoodie and shorts, collapsing on his bed-ignoring the springs digging into his side-and swiftly fell asleep, feeling slightly unnerved for some reason.
When he awoke, he considered whether or not there was any point in getting out of bed, he had no plans, no one to hang out with, no hobbies, no where to go. He got up anyways, reminding himself to feed the pigeons, his only friends in this rundown city.
‘How sad’ he thought to himself, smile on his face. He wasn’t hurt, not really. Desmond never really had many people in his life, the few he did have were terrible anyways so he never really held any desire to run the risk of getting attached to more people who would most likely cut him down anyways.
He grabbed whatever was in his closet, he didn’t have many clothes and there wasn’t any point in getting all dressed up. A tank top and some joggers will do.
He looked at himself in the mirror.
Actually no, he did have a reason to get dressed up. He couldn’t feed the pigeons while looking like a fashion disaster. Instead he threw on his favourite white hoodie and some jeans. He even put on a red belt for a little razzle dazzle.
‘What has my life come to?’ Instead of getting ready to go out with friends or on a date like most people his age, he’s getting excited over feeding some pigeons. He sighed, his life wasn’t a grand adventure but it was his and he was relatively happy with it, and to him that’s all that matters. Desmond left his apart, not bothering to lock the door as there wasn’t many people and the ones here wouldn’t bother stealing from him, even if he did have anything worth stealing.
He made his way to the rooftop, his landlady knew about his hobby and was kind enough to give him a key to the fire exit leading to the roof. The stairwell was the only part of the building untouched by graffiti given how he was the only one with access to it, making his long trip up to the roof slightly more enjoyable, as enjoyable as climbing up stairs that felt as though they would give under his weight could be. In total his apartment complex had twelve floors, meaning he at the very least could enjoy the view.
It was freezing when he finally reached the roof- making Desmond thank himself for deciding against the tank top. When he first taken up his habit of feeding the birds, he had spent a week or so making nests for the birds, seven to be exact. They weren’t much, made using old cereal boxes and shoe boxes. He remembered going to the local library, abandoned but still holding books, and looking at different books about birds, using the information to learn about what birds used to build their nests. That’s why he decided to stuff the makeshift nests with old t-shirts that no longer fit, fluff from his blankets and even his hair whenever he cut it. He tried making them comfortable, he often collected shiny things he found on his walks around the streets to give to his small friends who in return would bring him little trinkets. Most likely random junk but it meant the world to Desmond.
He made his way over to the large box he used to keep the nests in, shielding them from the cold wind- he doesn’t think he could forgive himself if one of the nests had been blown off the edge. He was immediately flocked by his feathered friends, who sat on his shoulders, head and even inside his hood. He smiled, being nuzzled by the birds felt nice, their feathers tickling his neck and making him giggle.
He tore off bits if bread, placing a decent amount in each nest and occasionally feeding one of the birds perched on his body.
One of the birds cooed, gaining his attention before fluttering down to it’s designated nest. Desmond peered inside, finding himself flooded with joy at the sight of eggs inside. He gently inspected the eggs feeling pride at how the parents were comfortable enough around him to allow him to be around their young.
Then he paused
This meant more mouths to feed
He looked at his feathered friends, quickly deciding that he could go without the food much longer than they could. He didn’t have much money, his job didn’t pay much and most of it went towards rent. He couldn’t afford much food, but that was okay, he’d rather feed them than allow them to starve whilst he ate.
He sat on the edge of the roof, he wasn’t scared about falling, he wasn’t scared of death- he wasn’t suicidal, but he wasn’t scared. If he did fall, it would most likely be painless given the height, and the pigeons might be able to eat the flesh- he knew that they could eat meat, they just had a hard time penetrating human skin with their beaks. Maybe the fall would split his skin, so they could tear it away? It didn’t matter, he was pretty confident he wouldn’t fall anyways. He gazed at the sky, surprised to see that the sun was already setting.
How long had he been out here?
It didn’t matter, not like his days were fulfilling anyways, and he enjoyed watching the sky shift from blue to orange to red before finally settling on black.
As Desmond sat on the dingy roof surrounded by cooing pigeons, watching the sun gradually lower over the horizon, he wished- not for the first time in his life- that he had somebody to share this with.
Desmond was alone, but that’s okay- at least, he thinks.
Once he was done, he said goodbye to his friends, locking the fire exit of the roof to make sure no one could harm them, before making the descent to his floor. When he reached his door, he stopped, noticing that the box was still there. Odd, surely someone wouldn’t collected it by now. He would have brushed it off like the night before, only this time there was a note attached to the box.
He picked it up, the note was written on red paper, and the written was in white ink. Strange, it was oddly… fancy, especially for this city. The writing was beautiful, and even though Desmond was by no means a graphologist he had to admire the cursive handwriting that looked like it was written with a quill if the random splotches of ink were anything to go by.
‘Why would someone still be writing with a quill?’ He wondered to himself. It seemed like a lot of trouble for a seemingly small reason. Desmond read the note, his face dropping when he read the message-
I hope this gift finds you well, and I hope it is to your liking. Please wear it at all times, my dearest Desmond.
What
It was addressed to him?
He didn’t know his neighbour, but he did know they weren’t called Desmond, as far as he was aware he was the only Desmond in the entire building.
Who was this person and how did they know his name? Why did they call him their ‘dearest’?
He opened the box, finding a bracelet inside. It was cold, clearly made of some kind of metal, and was very intricate. It was mostly white, tiny engravings carved to look like swirls, some even looking like skulls. The design brought his attention to the centrepiece of the bracelet, a strange symbol looking triangular in shape with the bottom points curving off to the side, leaving the shape with only two sides. In the centre there was a small red gemstone. This looked very expensive.
How could someone find something like this, let alone afford it, in a city like this? All the jewellers and business owners left so surely it was impossible for someone to get their hands on it.
Why would someone give it to him? He didn’t know anybody, certainly nobody who could afford this, let alone who would give it to him.
They wanted him to wear it
As creepy as this was, he was also slightly flattered.
He had never received anything before, everything he had he worked for and got himself- it was sad,but that’s okay.
He had been content with the few things he possessed, but secretly he did want something like this, he liked jewellery, liked shiny things.
Maybe he would wear it
Desmond went to bed gazing at the bracelet that night. It was odd, a little creepy, but a gift was a gift and he doubted he would hear from the person again.
He felt slightly less alone that night, and that was okay.