1914
I killed him. I finally killed Edgar Ross.
I sat on the grassy bank of the river. My boots nearly touched the water, which was tinged with pink. He'd fallen in, after I'd shot him. I shot him a lot, and in many places. It hadn't been hard, but there was a lump in my throat.
I'd killed men before, but I hadn't known their names. I hadn't spoken to their families.
Pulling the trigger, that was easy. But what about afterward?
I looked down at him. He was under a few feet of shallow water, and my stomach turned. I knew I was thinking too much about it. I wasn't going to let myself get worked up over that son of a bitch. I climbed on my horse and went to the nearest town to get as drunk as possible.
When I awoke the next morning, I didn't remember much. I wasn't in a bed, instead I was slumped against the side of the building. My neck hurt and my leg was numb. The underside of my nose was caked with dried blood, and my knuckles were also bruised. I guessed that I had gotten in a fight that wasn't important enough to remember.
I thought to myself, is this who I am? Kill a man, drink until I blackout, wake up dizzy and confused, and then repeat.
Part of me was lost. It was the only thing that could wash away the pain, the regret, the grief… I didn't do much thinking when I was drunk. Thinking was painful, pain brought weakness, and I couldn't afford to be weak.
I felt like I was going somewhere I didn't want to go. Down, down into that deep dark pit and I'd never be able to pull myself up.
