Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-35515534-20190602184445

Harold slowly dragged himself out of bed. He didn't know why his house was in disarray; couldn't remember the night before. Had he drunk too much? The answer lies right behind him. Opening the glass cabinet door, grabbing his blue, child-like toothbrush.

Brush away Harold, brush away.

He left the toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, he closed the glass cabinet. As his eyes widened. Something human-like, he suddenly remembered everything.

The car...the robes...the blood... all too late.

6/2/19, Harold Helpart. Homicide.  