After the echo of the gunshot died away, the only sound was the squawk of the peacocks penned in the neighbor’s huge back lot. I dropped the gun, then picked it up again. I thought vaguely of fingerprints and not leaving the gun here. I should leave, but my feet were planted on the ground like tons of immoveable stone. I couldn’t move my eyes from the small round hole in my father’s forehead. The fact that he had stopped moving, stopped breathing, felt like the most fascinating bit of information I’d had since the age of seven when he started visiting me at night.
A sudden flood of relief ran through me, made me weak and I dropped to the grass gasping and crying . . .
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