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Hair
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Stories “No, I didn't do it,” spews the madman as he grips his hair. The collar of his loose black T-shirt barely covers the scar running from his neck to his navel or the scratches on his left bicep.
Halogen lights flicker as water drips from the ceiling in the long dark hallway. A woman screams. Victor walks and smiles down to the bound woman with mud still dripping off her face from being dragged down the hallway.
Still grabbing his hair, he walks down the hall. The smell of burnt gunpowder lingers in the air. “How could I do it? Why did nothing stop me?” he mutters more.
“Why are you doing this to me?” asks the lady.
“Simply, because I can,” replies Victor still smiling, “It won't hurt, don't worry.”
“Why me?”
“Call it wrong place wrong time, careful planning, whatever you want to call it.”
“Do you know who I am? Do you know anything about me?”
“Well Annie I know you do anything for a buck, even letting criminals go free. I don't care.”
“I'm not going to do this. I don't want it,” rambles the crazed maniac with a few more steps down the hall. Hair falling out of place, sweat dripping from every pore. He pulls his hair back, opens a door. Inside the room is a crying lone woman. Victor looks down at her and smiles. A quick flicker. Victor pulls out a revolver from the back of his pants. With another smile he pulls the trigger. Annie now lies on the floor bleeding from the hole between her eyes.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Water falls unto the head of a man. He awakens and smells stale blood, but it's too dark to see anything. Mud makes his skin feel dry. The door creaks and a man dressed in a loose black T-shirt walks in unable to hide the scar on his chest.
