Broken Bottles

My head felt like the ocean, like tidal wave after tidal wave was crashing against my skull. My eyes were reluctant doors on rusty hinges, but once they opened, I wish I had kept them closed. There were holes everywhere. Grotesque circles, roughly the size of marbles. 

Lifeless bodies like forgotten rag dolls littered the bar’s floors. Some eyes were closed, but most stared blank into space, unblinking as if asking, “Why?” The victims varied in age: college kids, middle-aged women, retired veterans, you name it. Holes had pierced every body within the bar and the floor was slick with fresh red fluid of the dearly departed.

I noticed something heavy in my right hand. I wrapped my fingers around the item and brought it around to my face. My midnight black 9mm pistol stared back at me, slippery with fresh blood, still warm to the touch. My body was numb, which made the gun feel much heavier than it was. Despite the pounding in my head, I propped myself up on my hands, and took in the horrifying sight. Broken alcohol bottles decorated the room, liquids of greens and blues and reds dripped from the bar to the floor. *plip plip plip*

My memory was a collection of broken shards. I remember drinking, the room spinning, someone shouting that I had had too much, the sound of gun fire, and women screaming. Sirens blared from outside while blue and red lights flash through the windows. A group of men in blue stomped through the door and hauled me to my feet. I couldn’t understand a word coming from their lips, as if I was underwater, and they were continents away. They rolled out yellow police tape while photographers came on the scene to take photos. I couldn’t understand what was going on, but I had the faintest idea. I was going to need a lawyer.


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