By the time it was dusk, he was tired of hiding in the old warehouse. He had looked for shapes in the peeling paint of the walls all day. Now that the hall was darkening, he was a little spooked, not that he would ever admit it.
Suddenly he found a shape resembling a face of a man clutching something. Was it a knife?
He looked away trying to curb the guilt and dread rising in his chest, only to find one that resembled a woman dead on the floor.
Suddenly, the peeling paint that was her hand moved slightly.
He clutched his heart and died…
Short Stories | Fish-eye Perspective 