anyone. I spent the rest of the night consoling him on his “mistake,” and ever since, we haven’t been the same. I made my way to the table. There, forgotten, rested Max’s semi-auto. I picked it up, felt the weight of it, and in a moment of power, I marched to our bedroom. Max was staring at the TV, his gaze locked on the screen. He was watching a show about female surfers. The volume was loud, yet I could still hear, in the distance, the shrill, murderous cry of 01110. “Hey babe,” Max said, not averting his stare. “Think you could fetch me a bowl of chips?” “Can’t,” I said, holding the gun to his head. “I’m busy.” “Busy doing what?” he asked. He was focused on the TV. “I’m doing what you wanted,” I said, pressing the gun to his skull. “I’m killing the monster.”
Continued:
[Tiny Monster {by Gregory Letellier}] 7