Mr. J is still in his car. Fixed that slight crack in the windscreen. Notes. Theorizes. Concrete. The crack is not his fault. It 'was the shock of his head with the glass causing it.
concrete again. He touches his forehead with his free hand from the safety belt and notices blood. Mr. J. Smiles It 's still alive.
now turns to the other car, oblivious to the excruciating pain that comes from the base of his neck. E 'away and leaning against the guardrail, dark inside, like an animal Wild asleep waiting for the day.
E 'was a violent clash. A front that only in American movies. Mr. J came like a madman in the oncoming lane, looking for an unwitting victim. An ultimate sacrifice for his life was born by accident.
Clack. Mr. J was released from the oppressive hold of the seat belt and is now in the street. It comes limping into the other car. Must ensure that the other is dead. That his sacrifice was not in vain.
As he walks, his eyes linger on the uniform trail of blood drawn from his feet and realized again. The miracle of being alive.
E 'a few feet from the car now. Figure tries in the shadows in a small movement, evidence that life goes on even him.
Two miracles in one night. Two miracles that will soon be rendered vain by the hand of a simple human being.
Mr J remained motionless for a few seconds. Then his arm on the way to the final dish.
Grab the gun a few hours before it grazed the head of another person. The gun has already committed sin.
opens the door for Mr. J. He wants to look straight into the eyes of the owner of that life which at times will be broken.
It 's a woman. Not so bad. On another occasion were lovers. Who knows. Not even a second
recalls. Even a second of hesitation or thoughts clouding your view.
Bang. From the gun barrel out of the smoke. Only blood from the woman. No soul
shelled out.
Could you be wrong again?
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