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In the past. It's a strong phrase to use for something that doesn't go further back than a few years. It's crazy how so much can change in such a short time.
it's not oil. It's blood. A viscous, sticky pool of it. Like a drip painting, as abstract as it is macabre. And—he realizes to his horror—the eerie pool of blood next to the car may be the largest, but it's not the only one. In several places on the floor there are smaller puddles. Near one of these, there is also a dark red stain on the wall, roughly eight inches above floor level.
who knows? He does, she thinks as tears blur her vision, transforming the door she’s staring at into a surreal, dancing Rorschach shape. The psycho knows.
He would die for his family. He would give his life for theirs, without hesitation and without reservation.
