Even the toughest human beings still have a life.
|It had been another long day of wrangling up criminals and distressing his colleague’s ears with his thundering orders. Chief Officer Sam slumped onto the couch, drained from today’s events. With a towering demeanour and trademark glare that spelled out death, it was a wonder if anyone chose to cross his path. Fierce and ruthless, the only two words his name was associated with. For now.|
Sam got to his feet. Without a moment’s hesitation, he had the door bolted and the blinds shut. He was a ninja, cautious with every step he took and every sound he made as he crept up the creaky staircase, impatient to enter his bedroom. A smooth wooden container no bigger than the size of a shoebox sat in a desolate corner, waiting on his arrival. Instantly magnetised to it, he greedily snatched the box up, took one last look around the perimeter, and flung the lid off.
Low and behold, there lay the needles, their tips glinting in the light. Next to some yarn. A fuzzy, tangled ball of neon orange yarn. Sewing materials. Sam smiled, but it would quickly morph into a look of panic when a knock came at the door, followed by an elegant lady poking her head in. Leave it to him to forget he lived with a wife. He could only be thankful she didn’t question the box, nor did she stay long. Wiping the beads of sweat from his brows, Sam turned his attention back on his materials to continue where he’d left off from his previous knitting project.
He could’ve remained at his desk for ages, listening to the clacking of the needles, absorbing the warmth of the wool as he touched it, watching the thread come together into one colourful woolly masterpiece. Created by the hands that grabbed outlaws by the cuff and threw them into prison cells. The guys at work would have a good hoot at that one if they ever found out, which was why they wouldn’t. Neither his family nor the woman he was married to. It was his secret to keep or share or take to the grave. And he was taking it to the grave.
Carried away by his thoughts, it was only after his scarf was halfway done when he halted, peering closely. His eyes confirmed it, there was a hole in his creation. He’d messed up one of the stitches. If his fist making contact with the surface of the table didn’t cause the neighbourhood to rise, the frustrated yell that followed definitely did. Hobbies. Relaxing, but not enough to change a grumpy man’s personality.