NEW WRITING:

He sat - unfocused and alone. He breathed slowly and surely. His lips moved, but he couldn't hear what they were saying. He sat in a hard chair in front of an even harder table. His hands calmly rested in placid mode on the cool pitted surface in front of him. He glanced down at his knotted fingers, his bitten nails, his distended veins. He'd smelt oxidising blood before he'd noticed his red stained hands. He couldn't remember where the blood had come from, couldn't remember if it was his or anothers. He turned his palms towards him. The strong story lines of his hands were now highlighted in vivid red - so many lines. He blinked slowly and surely as he pumped his hands into fists. He smiled, he remembered. He remembered that he was precise and formal in murder. He remembered that he was pride in another's story cut short.