When Ali Baba entered his room, the first thing he could set an eye upon, he kicked. That meant, his satchel and everything within it scooted across the floor, hit the wall, and came tumbling down and scattered around.
Ali Baba's eyes fell upon the sheathed dagger that twirled all the way back to him and settled right before his feet. A pang of guilt and pent-up rage hit him as he bent down and fetched up the weapon.
Settling down against the door, his hand softly, almost in an apologetic manner, pulled out the dagger from its sheath. His brown eyes were met with their reflection on the blade, and they were almost unrecognizable. Hallow, empty, and filled with fury. It took him a moment to admit they were his.
Coward.
This time, however, they shifted to the empty sockets of the disheveled bearded face that haunted his dreams and moments of his awakeness.
