She smelled him as he entered the room. The stale scent of old tobacco, sweat and motor oil.
As he approached, she noticed the whites of his eyes were as yellow as his fingertips.
Her memories of him, as ashy as the end of his cheap cigarette.
His eyes narrowed as he smiled, and she watched the devil emerge. Her skin crawled as he took her arm.
When he shut the door of the back room, she took the opportunity to make her move.
Every ounce of hate and hurt and justice, plunged into his skin, through that needle.
About the Creator
Telling stories my heart needs to tell <3 life is a journey, not a competition
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