In a room, there is a table with two chairs made of oak. It’s tattered by time and use, hidden under a thick white tablecloth adorned with floral print. On top of the cloth lays the sharpest combat knife ever constructed by man.
In the chairs across from one another, sit you and I in the moonlight of a Saturday night. All I could hear was the audioble hum of silence.
I look into your eyes. Blood red with revenge.
You look at the knife. Cold black metal, ready to take a soul.
Knowing your intentions, I bow my head and bring my hands together to pray.
Even the wicked deserve mercy.