He sat, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, his fingers sliding through hair moist with sweat. The basement room was cool; it was the work that caused Race to perspire. He took a deep breath, forcefully blew it out, and stood. His eyes searched over the tools hanging on the pegboard wall. That’s what I need, he thought, grabbing a slightly worn pair of hedge trimmers.
In the corner of the room, a figure stirred. Race pulled a length of twine, illuminating the room. The figure sat shirtless, tied to a painted wooden chair, a black sack covering its head.
“Hey! Animal! Wake up!”, Race said, smacking the sack, hard enough to knock the breath from his subject.
He pulled the bag off smacking him again; harder this time. “What were you thinking?!?”, Race asked.
“You know exactly what! AND WHY!!!”
The figure sobbed lightly. “I’m sorry … I’m sorry …”
Race grabbed the man’s chin and stared deep into his swollen, bloodshot eyes. “Forgiveness is God’s work.”, he growled, “I am not God.”