Blood was on his hands when they found him in her bed. The poor woman whom he loved, was lifelessly laying there, throat slit and covered in the scarlet liquid that ran through her veins.
Walking within the prison walls, his step seemed light and gay. But I never saw a man who looked so wistful.
He looked upon the garish day with such a wistful eye. The man had killed the woman whom he loved.
He deserved a death of shame. The kind where a noose is tied around his neck, or a bullet being shot through his stone cold heart. He had to die for the irredeemable deed he had committed.
Yet, he still lives, while she who made the mistake of loving him, is no more.
(128 words)
