Blood covered the ground. The gravel of the back alley didn't seem to soak it up quick enough. It stained Santos Domenico DeLuca's jacket; it coated his hands. It's supposed to stay in his body.
James Warren Reardon's eyes were staring up. When they found Santos, they smiled. As he spoke, blood trickled from the corner of his mouth: "Live a normal life, Saint."
Santos asked him what he meant, but didn't get an answer.
YOU ARE READING
365
Non-FictionI had this idea last night after a few drinks, a pounding headache, and an excessive amount of throat lozenges. In order to inspire me to write more often than I currently do, I am planning to write a new post every day and publish it, allowing me t...
