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(backdated - may)
Philip doesn't notice them at first, the marks on his skin, and it's only when he climbs out of the shower and catches sight of something red on his back that he wipes the steam clear from the bathroom mirror and looks over his shoulder to read the worlds etched into his back with what looks like a thin bladed knife.
Very much like the one he used in Africa.
I murdered 21 men.
The words look like fresh wounds, but they don't cause any pain and they don't seem to be bleeding, so Philip dries off and gets dressed. He doesn't know what to make of the words -- they're the truth, he did murder twenty-one men in Africa all those years ago -- but he also knows enough to understand he isn't getting rid of them any time soon. If they truly have been carved into his back, they're going to scar, which is something he's come to understand he could have surgically removed in Darrow, but that involves revealing this secret to someone else. They don't feel as if they've been carved, though, his back doesn't hurt at all and that makes him think this is something else.
Something he clearly doesn't understand.
It takes him less than a block to realize something else is wrong. He had been intending on picking up some groceries and returning home to deal with this situation, but at the end of the block he pauses when the nearby whispering gets to be too much. He turns to glance over his shoulder at the women staring at him, but catches his reflection in a store window. It's not a perfect reflection, but it's enough for him to see the words burned into the back of his jacket.
I murdered 21 men.
"Christ," he mutters under his breath, wondering if all his clothes are like this. He turns back in the direction of his apartment, not bothering to take off his jacket as he does. Chances are his shirt is the same and then what? He can't strip down further, not with the marks on his back, so instead he just hurries home, not watching where he's going and bumping hard against none other than his favourite Agent Reid.
Of all the people in this goddamn city to see this, Reid is the very last Philip wants.
Very much like the one he used in Africa.
I murdered 21 men.
The words look like fresh wounds, but they don't cause any pain and they don't seem to be bleeding, so Philip dries off and gets dressed. He doesn't know what to make of the words -- they're the truth, he did murder twenty-one men in Africa all those years ago -- but he also knows enough to understand he isn't getting rid of them any time soon. If they truly have been carved into his back, they're going to scar, which is something he's come to understand he could have surgically removed in Darrow, but that involves revealing this secret to someone else. They don't feel as if they've been carved, though, his back doesn't hurt at all and that makes him think this is something else.
Something he clearly doesn't understand.
It takes him less than a block to realize something else is wrong. He had been intending on picking up some groceries and returning home to deal with this situation, but at the end of the block he pauses when the nearby whispering gets to be too much. He turns to glance over his shoulder at the women staring at him, but catches his reflection in a store window. It's not a perfect reflection, but it's enough for him to see the words burned into the back of his jacket.
I murdered 21 men.
"Christ," he mutters under his breath, wondering if all his clothes are like this. He turns back in the direction of his apartment, not bothering to take off his jacket as he does. Chances are his shirt is the same and then what? He can't strip down further, not with the marks on his back, so instead he just hurries home, not watching where he's going and bumping hard against none other than his favourite Agent Reid.
Of all the people in this goddamn city to see this, Reid is the very last Philip wants.
no subject
He really is going to have to watch them a little more closely. If only for his own curiosity and amusement.
"Feel free, of course, if it makes you feel better, but rest assured I can clean my own kitchen if you choose to simply leave the mug where it is." He grins again, a dangerous glint of teeth. "I promise I've been cleaning up my own messes for a very long time." And he really has no way of doing what he's just suggested, of lifting Reid's prints or using them in the future. He doesn't have that sort of equipment in his apartment, but it's amusing to him to have planted the idea anyway. Let Reid think he's capable of something like that.