I heard that from behind me. Barely, though, through the whistling wind. It was just a word, as softly as anything, caught up in the wind and carried away. At seventy-seven stories high the whipping wind would make sense. And the baby wouldn’t stop crying. It was just wailing on and on like a madman. Of course, many people would call me a madman too. People who didn’t get me.
In these few occasions, which were becoming less and less rare, I knew what I was addicted to was wrong. I could’ve picked something like heroin or methamphetamine. But no, I have to pick this. My old therapist always said I had always been a very angry person. But I doubt that anyone would have thought I would have gone to this extreme.
You can read the entire story here
No comments:
Post a Comment