They shot Mr. Malcolm dead, right out in front of Clyde's Place.
Mr. Malcolm, they called him. He was fourteen years old. Not much of a mister yet, and no chance to be one now.
There was something in the way she turned. The fading yellows on her summer dress caught just enough in the twirl to dance in the rays of light coming through the windows…
I smile. His eyes widen before he tilts his head, curious. He hasn’t seen this in so long.
Smiles win me more lies than hatred.
I wasn't in control of that decision at all. It was as if my legs had more courage than the rest of me and started without consulting the other parts. It was like watching a movie, I was distanced from what was happening, but I hated seeing it.
A red line on the light green kitchen wall.