The End The cigarette smoke curls around my fingers. I watch it for a while, my other hand rested on my forehead, trying to calm the swirling in my head from the half bottle of whisky I've been drinking for the past hour. The bar is dead, just me and a couple other low#lifes breathing toxic and depressing air into atmosphere. You can taste the desperation when you walk in the joint, every person who walks in has a story to tell; my son was killed by a pack gang of rapists and paedophiles, my brother has been sleeping with my wife, my mother just threw herself in front of a train... You fucking name it, I've heard the damn story. I always wish I had something good and meaningful to say back to them, I don't even know why they approach me, maybe they think i look as sorry as them. I'm not like these sorry excuses of #life though, no, I am preparing. I've been preparing for 3 years, solidifying my emotions and getting a skin full of liquor to prepare myself for what I am going to do to that bastard. In my pocket is an address and a photograph of the man that murdered my wife. I look at it every single day, I look into his eyes and I think about what I say to him before I end his #life.