My inability to keep focused was going to wind up getting me killed; I was certain of that much. Right around the time I looked at the clock for the thousandth time in thirty minutes I knew I couldn’t even begin to care. I’d been listening to harpies all day long, screeching about husbands, wives, stupid children, office gossip, car accidents, pedicures, construction, phone calls and hell yes, even once, WORK. My arms were cold and I was shivering like some like touch was dancing along the skin, smooth and cool and impossibly light. My guts were in knots because I knew what was coming, but I wasn’t sure I could handle it.

Out of here soon, and there’s a bottle at home. I’ll pick up a pack on the way and I’ll settle in for a long haul. I’ll raise a glass to you and smoke out of spite and defiance, enjoying the taste of the smoke on my lips all the more for it.

And when the bullet comes tonight, through parted window shades that I could’ve closed, shattering the glass I’m holding and burying itself beyond my left eye, I don’t suppose I’ll mind it.

I haven’t been able to see in so long, anyway.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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