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It was possible I'd killed him but I didn't think so. Old timers called it a berserker rage. Not supposed to happen in our civilized day and age.
But there's nothing civilized about the world we live in. That's just a lie we tell ourselves.
I took my loot back to the hotel where I was staying. I checked every form of communications I had and had no messages from Cole or about Cole.
I took a cold shower and doctored my hand.
I cried. I paced. I almost called my mother, my father, my probably ex-fiancé. I almost went to a church. I almost called a trauma hotline.
In the end, I stood over the baggies and didn't even contemplate taking them to the bathroom.
I shot up and all the pain and anxiety and hurt floated away on a sea of pleasure.
I slept until noon. Then I ate and went back to bed and slept until six. I got up and tried to make myself flush the rest of the baggies and cried when I couldn't.
Then I checked out of the hotel room and went looking for Cole.
