I refuse to start these, things, as "Dear Diary" or "Dear Journal." I'm a guy, and no guy writes something like this in the first place. But the Doc thinks I should vent my anger in written form, rather than beat up some wall or locker. Or perp. I agree. My knuckles need some rest as it is.

Anyway, I need to vent some...anger, I guess. I don't know. I'm so damn confused. That's what it is, confusion. And pity. And guilt? I don't know, I'm no good at writing out my damn feelings. I'm still not sure what I'm doing...the kid's dead. That little loud-mouthed son of a bitch is dead. How about that, huh? One moment, he's shooting his mouth like he's gonna die in the next few seconds and needs to tell us everything as fast as possible...then bam! the kid really is dead. God, how is that for irony?

Shit, I'm still a little fuzzy on the details. The paramedics said I blacked out, that my memory might be fuzzy. No shit, they weren't kidding. All I see is gray. And red. A shit load of red. It's like looking at a sonogram and throwing splashes of blood on it...which it sorta was like. I mean the kid was just that, some baby-faced kid. Jeez, I can't stop thinking about it. He was right there in front of me. Just right there. A coupla inches to the right, and that bullet would've nailed me in the mug. Maybe that was the intention. Maybe I was the target. Maybe that's why I feel guilty. I lived my life as best as I could, the majority of my kids are grown. I've been lucky enough to see my kids born, save for Eli of course. But I least I saw him too. I remember clearly when I couldn't breathe, because the idea of not seeing my son...my little son....God, I can't even imagine. But if that bullet woulda hit me, that kid could have had some sense knocked into him. Some reality. And then he would have grown up. That's what gets me the most. A kid. And he won't live to see another day.

Yeah, he was annoying as hell. Stupid sometimes too. Didn't know when to shut the hell up, or draw the line, but damn was he just a kid or what? Little Blondie, my little nickname for him. Course I didn't say it out loud, unless you count whispering it to my partner as a little joke "out loud". But damn, I still can't wrap my mind around it. I was there. I was right beside him...right there. It just happened so fast, yet so damn slow, ya know? I mean, his face just imploded then exploded...is that possible? Is it possible for that to happen? Or for things to go fast and slow all at once? Maybe if that were the case, shouldn't have I stepped in? If it was slow enough, couldn't I have been fast enough? To save him?

I'm wallowing. I know. I'm pissed. Everyone knows. I'm hurt. I'm saddened. I'm guilty. No one knows. I can't let those feelings override me. No matter how personal, or how God awful. I mean, anyone can brush that off, right? I need to stay strong for my partner, and the precinct. For my kids, and my wife. So I can brush that type of shit off, right? Some kid, some blond named Dale, getting his face blown to hell in front of my very two eyes...his...his...God whatever the hell that was...splattering all over my jacket, my face, my hands.

I tried to save him. I did. I got over the shock and I. .Fucking. Tried. It was no use. Dead before he hit the sidewalk. They literally had to pry me off his body. I didn't love the fucker, I didn't even know him...but...he was just a kid. Right? You should see the tapes...I think I slapped him too. Right across the face. Right. Across. The. Face. But he didn't have one. Big laugh, huh? Guy with no face, but I try to slap him anyway? Man, I can just feel the urge to run into the bathroom and scrub my fingers raw again. Till they bleed. Just like him. Because he didn't deserve to fuckin' die. But I deserve to bleed.

I shook him, sure. I held his body, pulled it into my lap. If someone managed to snap some pictures, I'm sure they'd win an award. His body was still warm. His blood was sticky. It smelled like death and powder. Oh yeah, baby-faced kid used powder. But no camera can catch that. No camera can catch the warmth, the stickiness, or the smell. But they made do with a stricken cop holding a young man's lifeless body. I'm sure it made the news. I'm sure.

So, what do I do now? I wake up, kiss my kids and my wife, and I go to work. I go through the day, focused, because I can't afford to not pay attention. I can't afford to lose my partner just because I wasn't fast enough. I already got my fifteen minutes, I sure as hell don't need anymore.

A/N: Confused as to who died? Or who the writer is?

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