His Gray Half
Their words and irrevocable slurs, were nonexistent to him, just as the passing shadow of the morning sun.
Although I did see his knuckles bleed, his shirt stained red with the blood of Stewart, James Stewart. He had either insulted his mother, call him names, or played too roughly with him, the rumors had so many plots to the play, but all versions were right at the verse of James getting cornered, and beaten half dead. As he brooded over James' unconscious body, those admirably meek gray eyes turned heavy and remorseless, filled with hate than anger, baked in fear, a carefully masked fear nobody noticed, or nobody cared to give a second look, but it stood out, glimmering like a bleeding so
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