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[Jessienut]

My second hit was worse. By now I'd convinced myself that I could go in at midnight, shoot them in their sleep, and walk back out like the first one. Easy money. I'd get dad's headstone and, in a messed up way, I'd get my respect back by sacrificing any I had for myself. Except, this one, a woman called Vera, wasn't asleep. The plan was to get there at midnight. I staggered through her door gone two. The taste of cocaine burned my throat. I wanted to throw up but couldn't. Nothing to bring up and I just choked on air. I closed the door behind me. The orange glow of a streetlight outside revealed the outline of half of the blackened room. Everything else wavered as if out of focus. In ten seconds I was upstairs, stood in the doorway of her bedroom, a wall of framed photos behind me. Shaking, like a scared dog, I pulled out my gun. I thought I'd find her laid in bed asleep, some old dear wrapped up in a tatty blanket who nobody would miss. She wasn't. She sat on the edge of a bed covered in syringes and baby wipes, pulling boots onto her thin ankles. She was naked, with skin like an orange, discoloured and bumpy. A bulb swung above her. There was no time to think. No time to worry about the family who'd mourn her. I had to pull the trigger before she saw me. Then the room tilted. My vision blurred, and the swinging bulb seemed to give out blackness instead of light. Home - DreamreaderDreamreader ([Only registered and activated users can see links]) I'd known my dad was dying for a long time, thought I'd prepared for the day when it would come, that I was as ready as he was. Then it did. And it broke me. I sat in some murky bar, the smell of burnt wood and vomit burning my throat, still in my black suit, no flower. Still crying when a barkeeper in a torn flannel shirt handed me my fourth pint. The lights in the bar were dim enough to hide the stains on the counter, and the other customers – lonely enough not to want to talk, too lonely to drink at home.

[Jessienut]

My second hit was worse. By now I'd convinced myself that I could go in at midnight, shoot them in their sleep, and walk back out like the first one. Easy money. I'd get dad's headstone and, in a messed up way, I'd get my respect back by sacrificing any I had for myself. Except, this one, a woman called Vera, wasn't asleep. The plan was to get there at midnight. I staggered through her door gone two. The taste of cocaine burned my throat. I wanted to throw up but couldn't. Nothing to bring up and I just choked on air. I closed the door behind me. The orange glow of a streetlight outside revealed the outline of half of the blackened room. Everything else wavered as if out of focus. In ten seconds I was upstairs, stood in the doorway of her bedroom, a wall of framed photos behind me. Shaking, like a scared dog, I pulled out my gun. I thought I'd find her laid in bed asleep, some old dear wrapped up in a tatty blanket who nobody would miss. She wasn't. She sat on the edge of a bed covered in syringes and baby wipes, pulling boots onto her thin ankles. She was naked, with skin like an orange, discoloured and bumpy. A bulb swung above her. There was no time to think. No time to worry about the family who'd mourn her. I had to pull the trigger before she saw me. Then the room tilted. My vision blurred, and the swinging bulb seemed to give out blackness instead of light. Home - DreamreaderDreamreader ([Only registered and activated users can see links]) I'd known my dad was dying for a long time, thought I'd prepared for the day when it would come, that I was as ready as he was. Then it did. And it broke me. I sat in some murky bar, the smell of burnt wood and vomit burning my throat, still in my black suit, no flower. Still crying when a barkeeper in a torn flannel shirt handed me my fourth pint. The lights in the bar were dim enough to hide the stains on the counter, and the other customers – lonely enough not to want to talk, too lonely to drink at home.

[MichaelOdoff]

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