The night sky exploded like electrical wildfire, with a winter drizzle falling with a slight horizontal angle. Thomas Greco dug his bare feet off the banks of Pine Hill Lake; reminiscent of his home in Kingsgate, Minnesota. The rain was unaffectionate, like bullets falling from a tower under the guise of a hidden full moon.
Nevertheless, it wasn’t the rain that disturbed him; rather a seething heart, made of ebony, pumping vicious poison through his veins. A painfully deliberate process in which he found himself abandoned, with emotions disguised filling a persona that irritated him relentlessly. At times, he truly believed another mind demonstrated graciously until satisfactions were fulfilled. What good is it to reflect on a past that only angered him beyond reparation? Consequently, he lifted the heavy black trash bag and dropped it into the lake.
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