his hands and sleeves are stained red in an ombre of his freshest work. he's taking one for the team, a fine young man, he is; robust underneath the fabrics of his clothing although his muscles are turning to rust with age. he didn't remember when he started shaking, probably from the consistencies of his caffeine because he was always so afraid of breaking bad habits like letting his anger hold the loose reins harnessing in his mouth and now he's standing in a restroom he barely recognizes anymore with the death of another innocent, and it seems to look a lot like him. there is no innocence.
