He had never thought of himself as a particularly bad man, a bit misguided perhaps but not really bad. Or it was just because he kept the wrong kind of company, it was really all their fault that he had slipped into the slippery road of theft.
It had been their fault that he had found himself one night breaking into an old mans home to grab whatever valuables the old goat could have gathered through a lifetime of being a greedy old bastard.
And of course when the old man had come home earlier than he had expected it hadn't been his fault that he had beaten the old man down. He shouldn't have been there, it wasn't his fault the old man didn't keep to his schedule.
It hadn't been his fault when the old man wouldn't stop screaming and he had to make sure he stayed quiet.
Now he would never say anything ever again, which of course was his fault for not shutting up.
So now he found himself running down the quiet street, lit only by the streetlight and whatever faint moonlight could make it