Time Stamp
Anger.
The lines of his face were well-practised in faked emotion, faked empathy, faked neutrality. Anger was always shooed away, shut off in the woodstove of his mind. Not today. Today his face cracked with an anger so bitter and vengeful that it burned palpably red and hot. His arm shook as he pointed the revolver, teeth bared, eyes wildly narrowed into mere slits. He pulled back the hammer of the revolver, the bullets rotating into place behind the barrel. He stepped forward, bringing the revolver to Mordecai's temple where the boy shook with the sobs that racked his body.
"You dirty sonuvabitch," Benton swore, hot tears welling in his blue eyes as he spat out his own words like poison. Mordecai opened his mouth, but Benton pulled the trigger.
Empty. The gun was empty. Benton collapsed.