He breathed heavily, inhaling the oxygen that was dusted with a scent of blood.
Nixon Princeton twisted his head to the side and spat out a metallic color of red, it puddling on the alley way ground.
Nixon now wavered with a delinquent appearance, a non pleasant appearance.
His black hair was matted with a crusted blood, making it seem like red hair dye.
His ears held golden piercings, as did his face. Stolen, if you must.
Nixon held his artificial eye in his palm, watching with his natural brown eye as it rolled in his palm.
It was coated in blood from his cracked skull, blood seeping into the eye socket of it underneath the veined eyelid.
His jaw was seemingly broken and hanging by a strap of flesh it felt, but it was just snapped out of place.
His clothes were torn every twenty inches nearly. His jacket was tied loosely around his torso, covered in dirt from him sitting down.
His feet no longer had shoes nor socks, having throbbing blisters and pebbles jabbed in his swollen heels.
His palms were wrapped in a heavy coat of bandages, along with his ankles and forehead.
Sirens wailed in the refreshing nighttime air, the atmosphere getting tense between the boy and the night.
In his mind, he silently swore at himself for being foolish, until?
Until his eyes squeezed shut from the blinding light of the policeman's flashlight shown on his face.
Monster by Skillet started ringing throughout Nixon's room, making him bolt upright in a hurry to turn off his embarrassing ringtone before it woke his abusive uncle.
Great, ten minutes behind. . . .
Nixon huffed whiping his forehead, ridding it of sweat.
Off to a bad start. . . .
YOU ARE READING
Red Ink
HorrorHe was an escapee. A hostile escapee, and his information was known to the government. Especially his location, buried in the pits of love....
