Rainsford awoke for what felt like the fiftieth time that night.
It had been days since he'd escaped the terrifying experience of being hunted and had put away his guns for good. All the same, from his home in New York, he couldn't help but think of the horrifying experience. He'd killed General Zaroff. All he could think of was the fact that he was just as horrible as the killer.
Rolling onto his side, he attempted to go back to sleep. Still the nauseating events played before his eyes. Blood had spilled that night, what felt so long ago. Screams that had not filled the air repeated themselves now in his head.
Shaking, he tried to recall the greatness of the night. He'd saved so many lives from the crazed murderer. He'd also made sure that no one would become the hunted. That counted for something, right?
Yet another pained shriek filled his ears. If he had to deal with it one more night, he'd scream!
Only one thing comforted his restless mind. He had access to a publisher. HE could make sure the story was told. HE could make sure everyone knew about the insane serial killer that called himself a hunter. The small bit of knowledge kept his sanity.
Giving up on sleep, Rainsford walked over to his typewriter and began anew on the story of not only his own bravery, but also that of those long since been destroyed. For you see, even if they were no longer among the living, they could be immortal in paper and ink.
Not my best work ONLY because I didn't have much time. Once again, for English class.