Tim was just hungry. So hungry he could barely think straight.
He saw the loaf of bread through the shop’s window, a butcher’s. Probably ready to be sliced up to make those deliciously looking sandwiches he could see in the fridge. But he had to be quick, no time to go for the sandwiches, it would have to be just the bread but that would do.
Tim could only see the back of the butcher, chopping some big piece of meat facing the wall behind the counter. No customers, it was his chance.
Tim opened the door, a bell rang. He quickly ran to the counter and grabbed the loaf of bread. The butcher heard the bell and out of the corner of his eye he saw that quick shadow reaching towards the counter. It was just a reflex, he turned around while bringing his arm high and letting it fall with all his strength and precision over the counter.
A scream, a terrible pain and the sight of his hand, detached now from his arm, still grabbing the bread.
The trial was quick and the sentence clear. The butcher had to have his own hand chopped off and reattached to the victim’s arm. That was justice.
Tim looked at his foreign hand. Even one year after the reattachment he still couldn’t bare its sight. The color of the skin was a bit different, and it sort of worked, but he couldn’t just forget nor forgive what happened and the desire of revenge kept growing in him. It didn’t matter that the butcher lost his hand too. And his shop, as he couldn’t work anymore. Now both were homeless, living in the streets, but Tim just couldn’t have any sympathy for the butcher, just hate.
One night, Tim took a knife and went to the corner of the park where he knew the butcher was sleeping. With the knife in his foreign hand, he stabbed the butcher ten, twenty times, until he ran out of breath.
The trial was quick and the verdict clear. Death by his own hand, it was a suicide.