Day after day, things will go on whether you like it or not.

 The sound of a crunch screamed in his ears like a siren. The smell of chipped wood and dirt occurred in that moment. Her foot, stomped right through the drum like it was nothing. Rage will sometimes take over someone’s soul. Someone’s mind. The rage he felt in that moment was indescribable. What led up to this?

-----

June 14th, 1997.

"James Miller. FBI. We'd just like to ask you a few questions, Dalton." 

His suit was beige and his tie a dark mossy green. His shoes polished loafers. He continued, twiddling his thumbs with bags under his eyes and a somber frown. 

"Now, Dalton, would you like to tell us what happened?"

“Is she okay?” 

Dalton sweated profusely. He didn’t know in the slightest what was going on. He wasn’t even a witness.

"Just think back to what happened. Okay?" James slightly smiled.

There were pipes under the bridge. They were covered in graffiti and were constantly dry. Sitting around in a circle they each observed one by one. It was a Desert Eagle. At the time they didn’t know whether it was loaded or not but it did have a scratched out serial number and reeked of skunk and vomit. Heaviness surrounded the weapon like buzzards over a carcass. almost entrancing.

Dalton sat there in silence surrounded by cold walls and a metal chair and table. The mirror behind him felt as if it were sentient and looking right into his thoughts.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Dalton sniffled.