The Distant Nightmare
The gun was cold. It burned. I held it. The iron was slick with my own sweat. The air tasted of copper and burnt hair. The room was white. Blindingly white. A hospital ward. Or a church. It didn’t matter. The walls were bare. The windows were boarded. I am a clerk. I count ledgers. I stamp papers. My name is Arthur. I am small. I am quiet. But I am here. The man in the corner is weeping. He is...
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