Lustitia and The Rod of Asclepius / Part III – The Curse of Creasy

What the fuck happened? This isn’t right. I shouldn’t be here. Panic surged through me, bringing me to my knees as I trembled with fear. My mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of memory. What happened?

Suddenly, my dream came flooding back, a haunting reminder that made me shudder. I recalled lying on the hotel room floor, on top of the plastic I had covered most of the room with—in preparation for the macabre scene to come. I wanted to make it as easy as possible for those charged with cleaning up my ugly mess, my life.

What The Fuck Happened?

The faint recollection of me screaming at God made me feel sick again. Then the peace of knowing what I had to do, of what I needed to leave behind, before I built on the foundation of the damage I had already caused. I pulled the trigger. Fuck, I pulled the fucking trigger.

I checked the .45, one round still seated in the chamber, full of a finite promise. I pulled the slide back, and the ejected round landed in my hand. I inspected it, turning it back and forth with my fingers, checking for the telltale dimple left by the firing pin. A Creasy bullet—misfire and misfortune.

What the fuck happened?