Flash Fiction: Scratch

The knife was his world. With every move against the stone, his memory also sharpened.
Scratch.
Town hall meetings, talks with police, phone calls with councilmen, all aimed at making the streets safe.
Scratch.
Arguments from talking heads and neighbors, saying they were products of their environment, that it’d be safer if he left them alone.
Scratch.
The lack of fear in his eyes as he leaned towards the car, knife in its sheath. “Wait here, son.”
Scratch.
Watching the coroners carry him out in a black bag.
He put down the knife, picked up his father’s rifle.
“They’re going to need more bags.”