dead hour.

Slow, calm... fake.

A world of his own creation, holding secrets as thick as lead.

A room cushioned and dim.

He sits, not a sound; a horrific nothingness.

Tick tick tick...

Thrown to the floor, a star filled canvas above, a musky smell of waste and abandonment strong in the air.

A gun, warm, in his hand.

A body, cold, on the floor.

A life, lost, to this man.

Flashes, monotonous and brief, plaguing his mind - A mind full of scorpions.

Tick tick tick...

A street, a day, another death.

Crimson littering the scene, a masterpiece of blood and anguish.

Sunken eyes stare into the lifeless doll before him, the sun setting fires against his skin; skin already scarred by societal control.

Tick tick tick...

Sirens, blaring red and blue.

Rain and death, the night covering the secrets of events but moments before.

Not covering enough.

A smile.

Small and simple.

Cold clad cuffs, dragging this miscreant to justice.

As the law suggested.

Tick tick tick...

Memories, that's all they are.

Life flashes before the eyes.

Crowds of people watching the show.

Screams of a man, this man.

Everyone fries in Texas.