... And the blood gushed down his arm, while his hopes stood salivating, staring at him. He held his other hand steady and slowly bent to pick up the pieces strewn around him. His head throbbed, and his bloodshot eyes that knew no sleep, oozed out a different blood.

He looked at the pieces. He looked at his hands. His hands never had long, dainty fingers, they were ugly and stubby. The air whistled a quiet cruel laughter into his ears.

He couldn't afford to start, again.