A Day After the Murder

Bill woke up and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to see shapes in the stucco.  There was a pleasant sort of numbness to it; he was insulated from the world by his blankets and the hum of the fan.  Then his mind wandered into memories, and something lurched inside of him, and sat cold and hungry in his chest.

He got up, needing to move.   In the kitchen, he put on a pot of coffee, watched it drip into the pot.  Dark and hot.

When the smell hit him, he ran to the washroom and threw up.


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