#Chapter36
As the late November drizzle coaxed the inner city into a high-octane frenzy, horns blaring and umbrellas popping up like spring daisies, Ronan watched from a bird's eye view. His head was pressed against the solid black balcony railing and although the cold metal dug in, burning against his flesh, it, much like the sly jabs to the wind, dwindled down to a minor inconvenience that hardly seemed worthy of his attention.
Blues, reds and blacks sped past, vapor trails piping from exhausts and tires squealing against the wet ground. Shouts merged with the overlapping tangent of chatter that splintered the street, firing at his ears from every direction. And he welcomed it all. The noise. The chill. The mind-numbing drone of his own thoughts being redirected.
It pushed him into a stupor, a dazed state between life and death; he was a ghost trapped between worlds, and that was a terrifyingly beautiful thing, in a disastrously, doomed kind of way.
