Red Handed

The tall man stood staring at the dark baker’s window with longing; his unruly black hair hung low, bangs just past his eyes and his mouth salivating like a dog at the thought of what would come.  His eyes no longer held the youthful complexion they once had, but instead were shrouded in dark purple, evidence of his recent lack of sleep.  The whites of his eyes were dull and faded containing streaks of angry red jetting out from his iris.  His body shook as cold wind whipped through his tattered shirt, the fine garment he had bought when traveling through China now hung loose over his well defined ribs.  His stomach rumbled and with it came a sharp pain arching across from his midsection.  He turned to his left and swung his arm back and with a frown brought it crashing through the glass of the baker’s shop.  He cocked his head sideways and frowned at his now bloodied hand as a silent tear ran down his cheek, not a tear of pain, but a tear of sorrow.  It was as if the tear itself was saying sorry.  He took one more look at his hand, the long, dirty fingernails that had once been manicured and the knobby knuckles now stained with his own blood were about to do one thing he once thought inexcusable.  He reached out and took the loaf of bread.  He quickly scribbled an apology on a scrap of paper, and realized his hands were no longer stained with just his blood, but also with his necessary crime.