The machine pistol hid well under his coat, it was quite surprising to Michael how it was easily noticed amongst bystanders at the bank. He scoured about, walking around the in and outs of West Chesterberg Bank. When the time was right he unveiled the weapon, resting it up on his shoulder. It earned the panicked attention of quite a few people, to block out any emotions of guilt for the few miserable lives he was potentially going to end he decided upon calling them numbers one through eleven.
"Everyone down on the ground! Overturn your pockets! Cell phones on the counter!" His thunderous voice rang out and echoed about the room, a few whimpers were heard from numbers three and seven causing Michael to lightly roll his eyes.
He wasn't all too cautious with hiding his face, it was more of the numbers' faces he was concerned about. The fear and terror splayed across, it wasn't that he minded, it brought amusement even. It was the guilt he felt from looking at them, Michael hated guilt.
"Mikey?" A call of his name interrupted the boy.
"Yes, babe?" Michael asked softly, getting distracted by the distant noise of sirens.
"Can you help me with the dishwasher? It's doing that funny thing again," The voice called back.
He paused the game and stood from the couch. His back annoyingly cracked as he stood, making a small whine leave his lips before he made his way to the kitchen, "The thing where the door gets stuck?" he asked, earning a nod from the younger as he stepped away.
Michael crouched down in front of the dishwasher door, turning the knobs every which way before banging on it twice, causing it to pop open, "There we go," He sing sang, "I think you're just wimpy, Luke," Michael teased the blonde, whose petite body occupied his shirt.
YOU ARE READING
Everything I Didn't Say
RandomA collection of writing excerpts that have found themselves forgotten about in my drive.
