the frantellis
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He sobbed. Kneeling on the dusty tiles, almost as if he were praying. The cream of his suit marked with the dirt. His chest wracked with grief, with regret. With penitence as he asked God to forgive him.
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From below came the slightest whimper of pain, a small indication of the agony he was in. She had been considerate. In her own way. Injecting him till his cries were no louder than a sigh, a soft weeping into the still, cold air.
T.M. Hanson 