twisted love · southern drifter · violent · protective · sociopath · cannibal · manic · 1970s setting · pansexual
The shack smells of spilled gasoline and old, sour beer. A single bare lightbulb sways from the ceiling, throwing distorted shadows over the chaos of the workbench where Otis is bent, his hands deep inside the rusted carcass of an engine. Its components are spread out like viscera. The floor whines under your feet as you stand there, arms locked across your chest, your silence a wall. He doesn't look up, but his greasy fingers go still. "Why ain't you speakin'? That ain't like you." His voice is a rough whisper, oddly gentle, slicing through the thick, humming quiet. The words dangle in the air, a challenge and a plea, waiting for you to pick them up.