Glitch

Murdock tossed T-shirts and khakis at the laundry basket, then rummaged in his bag and fished out shaving kit, a comb, a conch shell, a packet of crayons and:

"Oh, damn!"

Five minutes later he'd called Face and arranged for him to drop by in the morning and pick up a pistol Murdock had forgotten to put back in the van's gun locker before coming home to the VA.

Morning. This meant a sleepless night guarding the gun. Guarding it from any light-fingered crazies prowling around in the dark.

He sat cross-legged on his bed, the pistol in his lap, hidden from prying eyes with a book. Strange how on a mission a gun was a dear friend he loved to hold tight. But here, in his bedroom, his asylum, it was ugly. It was dirty. It didn't belong. Those two parts of his life were not meant to touch.

end

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© Elizabeth Charles 2007