The air was cold, the night bitter, and my heart black with hate. I went silently down the deserted sidewalk, mulling over the day like a growling dog. My side still hurt; I didn’t know if it was bleeding again; possible. Their faces, their names, were still in my mind, my friends, dead. Who beside me remembered them? Who would remember them when I was gone? Who would remember them tomorrow?
Rough Draft: Bleeding
Tale Told 