Quote:
Originally Posted by zelda_pinwheel
i haven't read that one, therefore as far as i'm concerned it doesn't exist, therefore Steinbeck and Finch are both in perfect health. :sheesh:
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Here's the last bit from "His Master's Gun". (I'm doing this from memory because I destroyed the story along with everything else
)
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They were dead. Everyone I loved,
had loved was gone and all in one stinking, blood soaked night.
Soon I'd join them.
The bullet had missed the spine and lodged deep in my brain. Too hard too take out the Docs told me. I'd get another five years if I didn't move too much.
That wasn't living.
Dressed, I heeled it out of the hospital toward a fine, fog-free San-Francisco morning. I never did say goodbye to the docs. Never did sign that sheet out front.
Somewhere on the lost and empty streets of the city, a dog barked.
But it wasn't
my dog.
And never would be.
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