He didn't think he'd ever take his invisibility for granted. Then again, it's hard to appreciate something you've always had until it's really gone or until you really need it. Common knowledge and a sentiment often found in song lyrics.

Edgar didn't really understand his invisibility...he never really believed in it, as it were. At the heart of things, he still believed that somehow his behavior rather than some innate ability accounted for his invisibility. After all, other people could notice him, otherwise he never would have gotten a job, gotten an apartment, gotten a car...all of it required interacting with others.

While he was protected somewhat, he wasn't aware of it. There are many chances that his normality saved him, prevented him from becoming the focus of one thing or another.

He took it for granted, the mantra that became law running along the lines of "It won't happen to me."

"I'm too normal."

Maybe that was what drove him to do what he did. Johnny had insisted on walking to and from Edgar's house and his own. Edgar didn't argue and strolled along with him. It was a pleasant evening at any rate, and he didn't mind the exercise.

Now, late in the evening, sometime in the single digits, he was wandering the streets alone back to his house. He wasn't paying a lot of attention...he kept glancing up at the moon above, thinking to himself, and then he noticed an alleyway that he was sure would give him a shortcut.

Edgar didn't suspect danger...he had never really encountered danger, not since Johnny, and in a way, Johnny also provided another barrier. A kind of confidence that if Johnny was going to kill him, then no one else would.

Or could.

He threaded his way past boxes, hummed a soft song to himself. Scriabin was quiet, apparently either tired or just not interested in what Edgar was doing.

They both were too complacent.

Not a lot of light down this way. That probably explained why Edgar was caught so off-guard.

Something caught the edge of his shirt and before he could gasp, Edgar's head hit the brick wall hard. With the collision there was a rush of intense static-like sound in his head and the sound of Scriabin swearing loudly in surprise.

It took a few minutes for his vision to clear, but it didn't help him much either way. His glasses were gone, the alley was dark, and he couldn't make out who was in front of him.

Before he could ask a question, ask him what he was doing, the man in front of him pressed a knife against his throat.

Scriabin was babbling and swearing in alteration and Edgar wasn't much better. He could still feel a throbbing at the back of his head, a deep and insistant pain and something sticking to the brick behind him.

The man said something about his wallet. Edgar struggled to get his hands to move, to remember where he had put it. He dug his hands into his pockets, threw out everything inside. His keys, change, receipts from the grocery store, and his wallet.

The man leaned over to investigate what Edgar had dropped, keeping a tight hold on Edgar's shirt in the process.

Someone help me oh god

If there was any time for Nny to show up, it would be now! Where are you!? NNY WHERE ARE YOU GOD %#%& YOU

Waited for his hopeful savior, for the universe to remember that these kind of things just did not happen to him. For the flash of silver and the eventual rescue, and everything would go back to normal. Waited and his heart was skipping.

Too panicked to think of anything. He had read the pamphlets, seen the television warnings and specials on what to do in such a situation, but they all ran together into something that didn't make sense. All he wanted to do was make it out of this alive and he had no idea how to do that.

Where are you?! Where are you when I need you!?

The man pocketed everything Edgar dropped, then again Edgar felt his head hit the brick. He struggled to stay conscious as the knife began to dig into his skin.

Oh god this isn't happening to me

He tried to say something, tried to tell him that was all he had, but he couldn't speak. The pressure on his throat stung and his muscles felt too tight.

He could feel the knife digging deeper.

I'm going to die.

Oh $%^$-!

A panicked moment and he felt Scriabin struggling, trying to think of something to do. The buzz of Edgar's thoughts probably wasn't helping him concentrate.

His arms moved without his control, tried to fight back. So Scriabin was that desperate, but Edgar didn't black out this time. Just felt strangely detached from the scene, kind of like watching a strange puppet show. Scriabin's effort did nothing except cause the knife to cut quicker and deeper, made his assailant give an enraged hiss.

He could feel the blood rushing into his windpipe, flooding and choking. Still felt detached and he could hear Scriabin panicking, not yelling at Edgar but at himself. He slumped over, the man was gone now he was sure, and things were getting awfully fuzzy.

His throat was slashed, he was sure now that death would come soon. He pressed his fingers against the wound as if he could stop the bleeding that way.

Oh god not like this not like this no no no no no

I...I never...

Choked, tried to breathe as blood poured down his throat. He was suffocating, his chest tightening and he couldn't breathe. Couldn't find the power to crawl for help. Too late now.

It was too late now.

No no no...this isn't fair... Scriabin gave a soft sob of desperation. This isn't fair, this shouldn't happen to you, not like this, not like...we're not supposed to die like this...

He could feel the bubbles of air popping deep within him, but no oxygen reaching his brain.

I wasn't supposed to let this happen...I was supposed to...what was I doing... Scriabin could barely choke out his words now. The two of them fading from consciousness at the same time. I...

That final effort to try and breathe foiled, his hands still trying desperately to hold onto his life at his throat.

Nny...oh god...Johnny...

He was the last thing on his mind.