Beneath The Skin

|prologue : a passing felon|

One. Two. One. Two. One. Two.

Dean Taylor counted under his breath as he lifted and released the dumbbell, burning holes into the carpeted flooring with his eyes. He didn't want to look at his reflection. Everyone had one thing or another that they hated; didn't want to set eyes on.

His was himself.

He exhaled with a controlled precision as he released the dumbbell on its original ledge. Picking up a face towel, he rubbed the grime and sweat off his chiseled face before heading off to the lockers area. He never showered in the gym.

He hated to share.

Opening up the locker, he folded his pale mint towel neatly before placing it inside his gym bag. Then he looked into the chipped, scarred mirror placed precariously clse to the clasp of the locker. He arranged his fringe, his icy blue eyes scouring for any imperfection. Satisfied, he slung his gym bag's strap over his shoulder, shut the locker, and left.

As he drove his sleek Mercedes down the short drive to his apartment building, he received a call from his secretary. He swiped answer, and straight straight ahead at the road, one hand holding the bluetooth device closer to his ear.

"Good morning, Mr. Dean. I would like to confirm your schedule for today." He winced the moment he heard her voice. It was high-pitched and unpleasant to listen to, and they had more interactions than any other staff member. "Go on." He said. She began to recite his schedule like a bullet train, picking lines off the top of her head. He responded positively and hung up.

He sighed heavily. As he pulled into the parking lot of his apartment, he caught sight of a mother and daughter. The little girl's leg was at an unnatural and awkward angle on the bright grass, the mother with a frantic expression on her face, hands flipping everywhere. The girl's face was streaked with grimy tear stains, and her mouth was contorted in pain.

There was no change in his expressions; his knuckles grew white as he clutched the steering wheel tighter. He stayed that way; expressionless, until he was in the confines of his penthouse loft.

He halted by the dining area, dragging out a chair and sat on it. He stayed still, so still he could be mistaken for a statue.

In one moment, all was still. And in the next, glistening shards of clear crystal lay scattered on the floor, with one of the pieces adorning just the slightest bit of scarlet blood.

"Why?" He whispered in a raspy voice, clutching the fist he used to shatter the crystal divident between the dining area and lounge. "Why me?" His voice was a raw, bleeding wound. His pain bled from every word. His unsightly, distorted face morphed back into a blank one; something he'd achieved with years' worth of experience. He glanced down at the fist he used to break the crystal, still in a tight clench.

There was no indication that he'd been hurt at all.

He screamed.