He had soft hands which meant he didn't do this often.
They could probably make beautiful music on a piano or paint the heavens on a canvas.
My mind continued to wander, as to ignore the crime being committed upon me.
Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Grunt
Once he was done, I wanted to ask why someone with such beautiful hands would want to stain them this way.
The tape around my mouth would never let me speak.
Although his hands seemed delicate, they were forceful. He tied ropes like a sailor but didn't look as if he had ever been touched by sea breeze.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and turned away. He was angry.
Surely not at me, I've never met him before.
I was simply at the wrong party with the wrong friends.
He gripped the shovel firmly, he could've played little league but he didn't play baseball that long. I would have noticed the callouses.
Not a single one.
His knuckles were white and he was so calm. I noticed his eyes weren't really looking at me.
He has done this before.
I will never know, why me?