Disclaimer: I don't own them? What do you mean I don't own them!?! Yeah, I don't.
A story.
Perhaps.
Maybe it would be the ladder out of the rut he had seemingly dug himself into and couldn't get out of. A distration from the emotions clashing inside of him. He would write a story, not about crime. Nor death. Two things he'd been in extremely close proximity to recently. Even more than normal. The man rubbed his weary eyes and began.
The typewriter clicked and clacked as the keys were forcibly pushed down, and his muse flooded back into him. And slowly the dark night crept out of sight and the revealing dawn slipped silently into the seat night had abandoned. The sun then entered center stage and illuminated the world, including the man and his typewriter. Still in the same positions that night had left them in. With the man still pounding the typewriter into submission, papers flying as the man replaced them when the old was filled.
Words. So many words. And he still wasn't done, he couldn't be done. Being done meant something, that he had completed something, that something was finally done right. An occurence that was rare of late.
An older man came in the front door and ran to the younger man. The younger man stopped his frantic typing and dropped his head into his hands. The older man placed his hands upon the other man's shaking shoulders and awkwardly comforted him. Words were exchanged and new lines formed on both men's faces as the hours crept by.
The sun waltzed with the clouds across the sky and day began it's retreat. And just as the sun tagged the horizon, red bleeding out, the older man rose from his chair.
He picked up two objects off the table that had seemingly been thrown there the day earlier and returned to the younger man, who had stood also. He placed both objects in the younger man's hands, and slipped out of the apartment. But not before relaying one last peal of wisdom before the door shut. The man stood there. So still, so very still. Then he looked down. In his left hand, a badge with a black band slipped snuggly over its middle. In the right, a gun with one bullet missing from the magazine.
One bullet.
A black band.
And the words of the older man, "It wasn't your fault, Tim.".
The man stood there. And the man cried.