He leaned the gun against his leg. He tilted his head back against the headrest and looked at the white fabric material an inch in front of his nose. Tommy will make it without me, he said to himself. I'm not to blame for his old man stapling his lip. I'm not to blame for any of the kids whose parents pitch them against a wall or drop-kick them.
Man is to blame.
And the faces of dozens of innocents paraded before his conscience in their blue and purple swellings, their playdoe hands raised to shield themselves, their frightened voices squeaking for help. Tears began to tumble down his cheeks. Maybe I expect too much, he thought as he parked in front of Mercy Hospital. It was now around ten at night. The gun was still loaded and was under a newspaper on the floor of the car.