Paul Sinclair couldn’t help but think “so this is how I am going to die.”
It wasn’t the way he had pictured it – not that he had ever given it that much thought. He was after all, only seventeen years old; having graduated from high school a little over a month earlier. But here he was, curled up in a fetal position, on the hood of his car in his driveway, immobilized by the pain. The pain. Why did he have to endure the pain? He wanted to die – right now – just to end the pain. It was as if somebody had driven an ax through the center of his skull, and were twisting it, slowly prying the two hemispheres of his brain apart. Paul knew it was going to be a slow and agonizing death. He just wanted it to end quickly to put an end to the torturous pain. He would end it right now if he could. It would be easy. There were plenty of guns in the house – rifles, revolvers, semi-automatic pistols, you name it – his dad was a collector and enthusiast. Paul knew which ones were kept loaded and where the ammo was for the ones that weren’t. It would be really easy. Just pull the trigger and end the pain – he was going to die anyway. What difference did it make? But Paul couldn’t move – the pain was too intense. Immobilizing. No, Paul knew this was where he would die. This is where he would be found dead tomorrow morning, or maybe tomorrow afternoon. Maybe his lifeless body would be here for days before anybody came by to see where he was – his yard and driveway were lined by tall bushes, so nobody in his suburban neighborhood would be able to see where he was unless they came looking. All Paul knew for sure was that this is where he would eventually be found; dead, curled up in a fetal position on the hood of his car in the driveway.
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