by BobMathews
claws at his throat. There’s that one moment where he knows he’s dying, and he knows nobody can help him. Terror. I wake up to that face sometimes in the middle of the night. I killed him, and I did it on purpose, to keep him from killing me.
Nobody really blames me, of course. They all saw him—saw how out of control he was. But on the nights when the Jet’s ghost won’t let me sleep, the gun in my hand is a comfort. It doesn’t matter anymore that I can’t get a fight. I fight for my life every night, and every night so far I’ve won. But I know there’s a night coming where I won’t win. Where the lure of the trigger will be too strong. I gave the Jet six good rounds. On the night I finally lose, one round from that gun will be all it takes.
THE END
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