.::. *** PREVIEW*** .::.

Here's a short preview of what I'm currently working on. Yeah it's not much, but it's really dark and gritty, and I'm excited about how this one is turning out thus far.

There was still a twinge of red, though the odds are that it was merely my mind deceiving me. The guilt of the act I'd just committed already turned round from its slow easy saunter in another direction; turned; ran; and reared its revolting facade mere inches from mine. Blood is always the hardest thing to wash away, both mentally and physically. It's the life within it that stains. It's the life that shows through each pore, vessel, and vein; every arm, leg, torso; every lip, ear, finger, toe; every eye. The eyes are where it shines brightest. That glimmer of life. I look back at him, dulled they have become, the shine gone forever. My attention goes back to the task at hand, making sure I don't get caught.

"Damn it Charlie. I told you, I fuckin' told you..." I kick him; my own brother, the knot in my throat choking the breath from my body. "I told you not to get involved, that if you did some shit would happen and I wouldn't be able to bail you out."

I can't hold them back any more, my vision blurs as the tears fall.

"I fuckin' told you, you dumb bastard."

I've lost all control now. I don't think the tears will ever stop. First Maria, now Charlie, I shouldn't have ever come back. I shouldn't have let them get close, they got too close. I've been able to justify the things I've done, even if only for me, by remembering the things that these people had done. The atrocities that they were apart of, but Maria her only crime was her love for me, and Charlie's... his devotion to being as great as his older brother.

"I'm a network technician," that's what I always told people; at least anyone who cared to know what I supposedly did for a living. It's a good cover, I just rattled off some lager company's as clientele and no one suspected a thing. I'm on my feet again, back at the sink scrubbing away, my face as red as the irritated skin of my hands. It was a perfect shot, one that could only be executed by a professional, one with years upon years of experience; clean, quick, and painless. He probably only heard the click of the hammer, milliseconds before bang, squish, crunch, splatter. The police would arrive soon, see the body, the gun in his hand no signs of a struggle and assume it was exactly what it appears to be on the surface, a suicide.