Where Breezeo is light, a breath of fresh air, the nice breeze on a warm summer day, Knightmare is the storm that rolls in and takes it all away. Darkness, thick and suffocating, the shadows you can’t escape in the night in back alleyways.
Black leather framed with dark armor, head to toe, from the combat boots the whole way up to the oversized black hood with a metal mask covering part of the face, rendering him unrecognizable.
I’ve always been envious of the costume.
Beats the damn pseudo-spandex, that’s for sure.
“I, uh, wow.” Kennedy stands in the doorway of her apartment with a look of awe as her eyes scan the costume. “That’s just… wow.”
“Wow, huh?” I glance down. “Good or bad?”
“It’s just, uh, you know…”
“Wow?” I guess.
She nods, fighting off a smile. “Wow.”
I smirk. “It’s the original.”
“Straight from the second movie,” I say, touching an armored chest plate with a fingerless glove-clad hand. “Well, except for these gloves. The real ones wouldn’t fit because of the cast, so I had to improvise.”
“Nice,” she says, touching the costume, fingertips grazing the armor. “Kind of weird seeing you like this, but still, it’s nice.”
“Thanks,” I say as she steps aside for me to come in the apartment. “I talked them into letting me borrow it. Might not give it back, though. I’m kind of enjoying it.”
“You should keep it,” she says, her eyes still scanning me as she closes the door. “It’s, uh…”
“Wow.” She smiles playfully as she walks away. “I need to finish getting ready for work. Maddie, you've got a visitor!”
A moment after Kennedy disappears, Madison runs in. She skids to a stop when she spots me, eyes wide, mouth popping open. “Whoa.”
I push the hood off, shoving the mask up, her expression changing when she sees it’s me, face lighting up. She runs right at me, slamming into me so hard I stumble.
I laugh as she hugs me. “Hey, pretty girl.”
She looks up at me. “You think I’m pretty?”
“What? Of course.” I kneel next to her, grinning as I press a finger to the tip of her nose. “You look like your mom.”
“You think Mommy’s pretty, too?”
“I think she's the most beautiful woman in the world.”
Her expression shifts rapidly when I say that before her eyes widen. “Even more beautifuler than Maryanne?”
I lean closer, whispering, repeating her words. “Even more beautifuler than Maryanne.”
J.M. Darhower (Ghosted)