Like empty shells his thoughts and burdens crumbled to ash as his body sprung on its own. He snatched a kitchen knife, hanging on the wall, and lunged. The man’s face paled in a heartbeat of sudden fright as Motomo clutched and raised his weapon. Edge met flesh and the knife’s point pierced the burglar’s throat. Once his muscles untensed, and he fell limp to the floor, did he dare let go of his knife.
Motomo froze. He stared at his tainted hands. His stomach turned, the urge a river bursting open a dam; forcing him to rush as fast as his old body would allow to the bathroom. He wretched, and looked at his reflection in disgust; his hands pale and trembling and red.
He was about to fall to the floor, his legs not able to carry his weight, as new vigour filled him; every breath clearing his fogged mind. His hands steadied and his legs gained the strength to stand. Again he looked at his reflection, and drew back once he saw the wrinkles in his face start to smoothen. He stared as the age in him was slightly erased, to reveal hidden youth underneath.
