Run... Kill him and run. Just run. But kill him first .- Athul DeMarco The room was dressed in dark, even though the sun outside was making the tar melt and dance to its unflinching tune. Black plastic around the VHS tapes and the shiny plates of CDs accessorized the darkness. ‘ Please! ’ the man pleaded, clutching his gut, the green shirt changing its colour to black under his tightened palm. Blood oozed from his broken nose, merrily mixing with the spit which bubbled and frothed from his lips. His plea was muted and lost under the loud banshee screams of the naked woman lying on the bed cowering and hiding her modesty under a blanket. Modesty which was until a few minutes back was being recorded under the expert direction of the man pleading for his life. The man, looked at the young boy, all of fifteen years of age, dressed in white shirt and navy blue trousers, chappals, two sizes too small for his feet, the bloody kitchen knife firmly clutched in his left hand. ...