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postcard story

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I’ve got to do it. A twelve-gauge shotgun rests in my mouth, my finger on the trigger, as I stand in a crowded room. Three uniformed police officers, two men and a woman, have their Glocks aimed at the least important areas of my body. I’m not sure why they care so much to save me when I don’t care to save myself. The officers are starting to look irritated, their ever-numbing arms wavering in front of them like the beam of a traffic light in a fit of wind. We’ve spent nearly forty-five minutes in this position. Somebody needs to make a move.

There are also two detectives in the room. Detective Casey has been onto me all along. When the rest of the force thought I was some underachieving, twenty-something asshole who was too stupid to pull off such a spree, Casey never bought in. The bitch bugged my mother’s house. Is nothing sacred? And my mother. Detective Wilhelm holds her in the corner. Her face is buried in the breast of his hundred dollar suit. Forty-five minutes ago, Wilhelm was holding her back. She wanted to save me then. Now she knows my secret.

Six women dismembered, bones buried in the fields. I’ve become quite skilled at mutilation, so they’ll never find everything. Even so, my fate is sealed.

“Click,” as I pull the trigger. With a crooked smile and a brand new fit of tears, my mother falls to her knees as Detective Casey drives me into the hardwood. She’d taken the shells out of that gun years ago.



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