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These are the random thoughts of Robert's demented mind. Some might be creative, while others . . . are just downright weird.
I watched the water trickle one slow drop at a time. I felt nothing, except for the loneliness of knowing she would never come back to me. My heart was as worthless as the broken faucet from whence the water dribbled one slow drop at a time.
It had been three years since that overcast day in October when I picked up the phone and heard the cop's voice speak to me with notations of rehearsed sympathy.
Numbness can never describe the feelings as the unfortunate bearer proceeded to inform me of the dreadful event. I would have preferred numbness over the hurting vagueness. It was a null, not unlike what one experiences while drunk on cheap spirits. I stood there with a sway, threatening to assault the floor with the weight of my pain.
The cop said his peace, and I graciously thanked him for his time. I rested the receiver on the cradle. Why I bothered to be cordial to the bearer, I will never know. In of itself, the act would be comical if not for the bleakness of the circumstantial moments mere seconds before I spoke the punchline.
How I did what I did afterwards is not important. I recall, at some point, clawing at my clothes like a wild creature mad with disease. My fevered rage only diminished when — and only when — I was no longer scratching at fabric but the threads of my nakedness.
Searing blood burned my fingers; my wounds screamed for mercy. Then, I was on my knees, sobbing. I sobbed like the damn faucet responsible now for my lucid recollection. Cursing God was all I had to push back the torment.
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