The First Time I Killed A Man

The day was long and beautiful, lit with rays, golden like a lantern in the mines of Moria. He was tall and brooding, guarded about his tour in Bosnia. I passed him a couple times as he sat there on the train station benches, reading a romance novel with blind eyes. My hand started to sweat over the screwdriver that was tucked in my pocket, and I counted to fifty. But he got up, his frame reaching up to the sticky fluorescents above, and he sent me a stare of anguish. It appeared he had cancer or a likeness to it. The train shot by us, and I launched myself at him. He caught me by the throat, and I kicked him in the groin. Having lost my sight, I jabbed rapidly at the air as my feet dangled a foot above the platform. Jaws bit my ear off and I stuck the screwdriver in his ear. Twelve minutes passed before the next train came, and I'm just glad there was no one else waiting.