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"Just up until they walked into their apartment, yeah. Kind of crazy, that woman was. Like something ain't right in her head. Maybe two minutes after he followed her, I heard the gun. Nine millimeter, from the sound. One shot." People thes days, I thought, as the police man wrote down what I said. Quick to just shoot each other, instead of taking time to work things out.

"Right. So after the gun shot, did you hear anything else?"

"The front door opened about a minute later, then slammed shut again. Ursula jumped in her car and drove away. Very fast."

"What time was that, do you remember?"

"Exactly? Yeah, actually I do; the eleven o'clock news was just about to start. Zack dead?"

"At this time, I can't really release any information related to the case. Better wait to read about it in the news. Case like this, you know they'll be all over it. Definitely dead, though. Excuse me, and thanks for your help. Frank Wilson?" he called out, as he moved onto the next witness.

Glad he was through with me, I went back inside my apartment. Having someone killed next door is a little creepy, I guess, I thought. I took a second to think about it. Just a second. Kind of like one of those haunted house stories, I thought. Laughing to myself, I thought, Don't be ridiculous. Murder doesn't always mean haunting. No need to go soft just yet. Only, I didn't really believe myself. Probably because Zack was sitting in the chair in my living room, grinning, like he knew what I was thinking.

1023 6/18/08

Title: Alphabetical Musings - An experiment

Counting to Ten

The first time we met, I was standing on my head counting to ten. No, it's not yoga. I can't get into any of that new age shit. The standing on my head thing is just a.. ritual of mine. It's about the only way I can deal with anger. Counting to ten isn't enough for me. People used to tell me to do it all the time. "Just count to ten and take deep breaths." Nope. Finally someone suggested I try something absurd, like standing on my head while I counted. I thought it was crazy, but it did the trick. It makes me feel like enough of an idiot to let anything go. And yes, I have to count out loud. When James walked in, I was battling a destinctly bad bout of rage. I heard the creak of the front door opening.

"Mr. Carmichael?" came a small voice from the other side of the counter. "Is that you?"

I was behind the register at my coffeeshop. I'm guessing all he could see were my feet. I finished counting, worried that the interruption would ruin the calming effect of my only escape. After reaching ten, I flipped back onto my feet. I could feel the blood draining out of my face, returning to its proper places throughout my body.

"Mr. Carmichael doesn't work here anymore. Is there something I can help you with, kid?" What's a seventeen-year-old doing looking for that creep? I thought.

"Um.. I don't know. My name is James McNamara. Mr. Richard Carmichael is my father." James had a sheepish look on his face. He was terrified of me, which was absurd. Despite my anger issues, I'm a very non-threatening person. Especially in my little coffee-serving apron.

"Well, I haven't seen good old Rick since he walked out on his shift last week. You looking for money? Because I can tell you right off he's got none." The boy's scared little kid look was beginning to creep me out.

"No, I don't need money. Do you know where he lives?"

"Nope. Sorry. He listed a PO Box on his application, and a fake one, at that." I could see the disappointment mixing in with the kid's