With taps of his feet, the hard leather resounded against the stone floor. The camera's lens sounded a familiar click.
It was a symphony of clinking and tapping.
Like dust, the pictures had collected on the ground.
But it wasn't working.
It wasn't perfect.
A scream pierced through the neon-lit darkness.
Charles's head turned an exact forty-five degrees.
It was ghastly and off-putting.
Especially the eyes—those lifeless, large eyes.
He dropped the camera in his satchel, grabbed the umbrella in one hand and the pictures in the other. As he darted in the opposite direction, the bystander screamed murder.
He was discovered and misunderstood.
He needed to run, which he enduringly did.
His throat burned, and his breath smelled of bile. His feet hurt, and his arm felt heavy in the cold.
No matter how much he ran, it wasn't enough.
'What was I doing?'
'Why was I doing it?'
'Have I lost it?'
Such thoughts crossed his mind.
