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Life Stories: part 1I haven't slept in days.
I remember it like a scene from some action flick.
On goes the slow-mo. Zoom onto the barrel.
"Click" goes the hammer, releasing the firing pin.
The explosion. The muzzle-flash. The bullet traveling at mach-three.
The bullet vanishes as the scene speeds up to normal time.
I release the trigger. I breathe deep.
I'm gonna be fucking sick.
It's called "Killer's Guilt Syndrome". They tell you about it at police academy. The way first time killers get so overwhelmed by the enormity of what they've done that they are rendered physically and sometimes mentally ill. They try to prepare you for it in case a perp needs to be taken down in the line of duty. The lessons mean shit.
The depression, the insomnia, the overwhelming guilt, nothing prepares you for it.
I started smoking again. I haven't been able to sleep. The scene keeps playing over and over in my mind like a sports action replay. Thank God I've been able to avoid the bottle so far.
Jeremy Range was two-bit pun
All Here For A ReasonI turned onto a shady, well-manicured driveway that, for all intents and purposes, looked harmless enough. Maple trees lined both sides of the street, and a parade of Canadian geese marched across the road to a wide duck pond with a flamboyant fountain. There were blooming crepe myrtles and rose-of-sharons, and as I grew closer to my destination, neatly trimmed gardens with neatly trimmed bushes.
I stopped to let the geese pass. They looked at me; one hissed. I honked my horn and moved around them.
At the end of the road sat a collection of grayish buildings and a number of signs directing me to the appropriate parking lot. "Welcome to Ten Creeks Hospital," said one of them. "Please enjoy your stay." I parked in the visitor's lot. Surely I wouldn't be staying.
I was shaking when I got out of my car. I had spent the morning getting high. One foot in front of the other, flip-flop noises, hot sidewalk. Mulberry and magnolia trees, freshly shaved grass. A bench and pan for smokers. A set o
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