Day Four

The figure began whistling nonchalantly. It was the tune everyone whistled when they were up to no good, and he certainly didn't have anything good in mind for Michael. He wore all black--black boots, pants, undershirt and coat. He sported a ski mask that was just as black as the rest of his ensemble. He stared down at Michael with fiery eyes--an intense inferno that could not be quenched with even the largest amounts of water. Michael returned the gaze, not sure of what would come of the next few moments. The man walked over to Michael and crouched down on the balls of his feet. He reached out and grabbed a fistful of Michael's hair, clenching it without intentions of letting go.

A tear slid down the wounded man's cheek.

"Haha! Aww, is little Mikey going to cry?"

In a sudden rage, blended with uncertainty and fear, Michael made a fist and slammed his assailant square in the jaw, breaking it. He staggered back, astonished that Michael took the swing. Ripping the ski mask off his face, he pulled a .9mm from his black cargo pants and pointed the barrel towards Michael.

Time froze.

Michael's heart nearly failed as the man began to speak in a nasty snarl. "You filth! You pig! How dare you touch me!!" His voice was inhuman. Almost evil.

Almost without hesitation, the assailant squeezed the trigger and a loud thunderclap signaled the report.

Michael gripped his chest, forgetting about his numb leg. A flash of pain raced through his vains and then a heat wave washed through his body and limbs. Finally, a tsunami of an icy chill crashed over him and he fell silent.

It was then that he woke up. He fumbled with his shirt, searching desperately for a bullet wound.
Nothing.
He reached for his leg, and again, no sign of an attack. But the pain felt so real, so alive. He had a hard time believing that it really didn't happen.