Anger. It swells in his chest, pumps through his blood.
The man sat slumped in a dark corner, bullet holes riddle his chest with a connect the dot painting done in blood. His breath comes in ragged wheezes, each one making him shudder in pain. He is barely clinging to consciousness, and by proxy, life.
Rage grants him strength, invigorates him.
The beat of his heart pumped blood from the wounds, pooling at the floor around him. Torchlight flickered across the room stood a man, talking with two others. He held a revolver in his right hand; its barrel still smoking from recently expelled bullets. His face was cast in shadow, but his laugh filled the room. In his other hand was a bottle with a torn of label.
Hatred brings clarity to his mind.
The slumped man shifted, his fingers twitching as his eyes peeled open to peer across the room. The bastards didn?t take his guns, they were both still on the floor by his legs, just inches away from his hands. But he could barely move. They laughed more and he grunted, reaching slowly for the weapons. They didn?t hear him over their own voices.
Vengeance is what fuels him, is what gives him purpose. It flies from the ends of his guns and cuts through the wicked with righteous fury.
The guns were lifted with shaky hands; the hammers easing back as his fingers squeezed on the triggers. Two loud bangs rang through the air as the room was temporarily lit up from the flash of powder igniting. Bullets cut through the air and drove into the shoulders of two men. The third twisted around as the slumped man?s arms lowered, sending another pair of shots through his shins.
Justice, however, is his reason for living. Above all else, he must exact punishment.
He shakily rose to his feet and approached the trio of bodies, silencing each one with another series of loud bangs from his revolvers. Blood and brain matter splattered against the wooden floors, mixing with dust and wood shavings. He stepped over the bodies and out the door.
The man sat slumped in a dark corner, bullet holes riddle his chest with a connect the dot painting done in blood. His breath comes in ragged wheezes, each one making him shudder in pain. He is barely clinging to consciousness, and by proxy, life.
Rage grants him strength, invigorates him.
The beat of his heart pumped blood from the wounds, pooling at the floor around him. Torchlight flickered across the room stood a man, talking with two others. He held a revolver in his right hand; its barrel still smoking from recently expelled bullets. His face was cast in shadow, but his laugh filled the room. In his other hand was a bottle with a torn of label.
Hatred brings clarity to his mind.
The slumped man shifted, his fingers twitching as his eyes peeled open to peer across the room. The bastards didn?t take his guns, they were both still on the floor by his legs, just inches away from his hands. But he could barely move. They laughed more and he grunted, reaching slowly for the weapons. They didn?t hear him over their own voices.
Vengeance is what fuels him, is what gives him purpose. It flies from the ends of his guns and cuts through the wicked with righteous fury.
The guns were lifted with shaky hands; the hammers easing back as his fingers squeezed on the triggers. Two loud bangs rang through the air as the room was temporarily lit up from the flash of powder igniting. Bullets cut through the air and drove into the shoulders of two men. The third twisted around as the slumped man?s arms lowered, sending another pair of shots through his shins.
Justice, however, is his reason for living. Above all else, he must exact punishment.
He shakily rose to his feet and approached the trio of bodies, silencing each one with another series of loud bangs from his revolvers. Blood and brain matter splattered against the wooden floors, mixing with dust and wood shavings. He stepped over the bodies and out the door.