It can also, of course, be assumed that when he passed that same area, he was followed once again. The truck must have chased him, and we can, of course, guess that he led it down every side street imaginable. The only thing that we actually know is that he ended up in our driveway.
Crash got out of his car and walked to the middle of the driveway, the truck was in the center of the street staring him down. From the window I could see only him—the road was covered in darkness. I saw him raise his gun, steadfast, and unafraid. He was prepared for what was about to happen.
I remember flinching slightly when the shot rang out. It was all so quick yet the sound still echoes in my mind. It seemed to sound on for miles around.
He stood for almost
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“I don’t want you to think of this as a suicide.”
The small crowd before her looked politely on, pretending as though they had no idea she was about to cry. His family and coworkers, even in death were rather indifferent to Crash. His expectable nature left them with some apathy towards his demise.
“Crash was very sick at his time of death,” she whispered into the microphone. “The man I knew would not leave his wife and child,” she choked again looking out to her only one-month-old baby. “I’m sorry if I don’t make any sense,” she said. “I think his hand might have shot him, but his mind never would have.”
The woman quickly backed away from the podium as the nearby man of the cloth went to her side. He comforted her back to her seat and offered her a tissue. Then he went back to the podium and began a prayer for the audience.
The snow fell heavy outside, making the December skies turn dark. The only light came from the windows of the church, where candles were being lit. The coffin was taken outside and led into the dark vehicle, ready to be buried beneath feet of dirt and snow. It was a fearful journey down those steps and into the hearse. But in death, he wasn’t