Forum di

Creato da ex Attivista del Movimento 5 Stelle, e i suoi Obiettivi sono la Gestione delle varie Componenti Elettive al fine di Creare una Coalizione e Condividere lo stesso Programma del Movimento 5 Stelle.

Ciao! Non hai effettuato l'accesso.

#1 2021-03-06 05:40:01

Registrato: 2021-03-06
Messaggi: 1

We aim to provide the best resources for teaching English to children

My second hit was worse. By now I'd convinced myself that I could go in at midnight, shoot them in their sleep, and walk back out like the first one. Easy money. I'd get dad's headstone and, in a messed up way, I'd get my respect back by sacrificing any I had for myself. Except, this one, a woman called Vera, wasn't asleep. The plan was to get there at midnight. I staggered through her door gone two. The taste of cocaine burned my throat. I wanted to throw up but couldn't. Nothing to bring up and I just choked on air. I closed the door behind me. The orange glow of a streetlight outside revealed the outline of half of the blackened room. Everything else wavered as if out of focus. In ten seconds I was upstairs, stood in the doorway of her bedroom, a wall of framed photos behind me. Shaking, like a scared dog, I pulled out my gun. I thought I'd find her laid in bed asleep, some old dear wrapped up in a tatty blanket who nobody would miss. She wasn't. She sat on the edge of a bed covered in syringes and baby wipes, pulling boots onto her thin ankles. She was naked, with skin like an orange, discoloured and bumpy. A bulb swung above her. There was no time to think. No time to worry about the family who'd mourn her. I had to pull the trigger before she saw me. Then the room tilted. My vision blurred, and the swinging bulb seemed to give out blackness instead of light.
I'd known my dad was dying for a long time, thought I'd prepared for the day when it would come, that I was as ready as he was. Then it did. And it broke me. I sat in some murky bar, the smell of burnt wood and vomit burning my throat, still in my black suit, no flower. Still crying when a barkeeper in a torn flannel shirt handed me my fourth pint. The lights in the bar were dim enough to hide the stains on the counter, and the other customers – lonely enough not to want to talk, too lonely to drink at home.

Non in linea

Piè di pagina

Powered by FluxBB