An excerpt from Heaven’s Grief with no context:
The music is turned down. A heavy and gentle hand sets on his shoulder. He can almost feel the warmth through his jacket. The action pulls Phillip’s attention, so he blinks the tears back in order to get a good look at P. T.
“It sucks,” he says, not making eye contact, but staring at the street ahead. “I’d like to say that I don’t know how many people I’ve killed. That it’s lost on me, and I’m able to sleep well at night.”
He’s silent for a minute.
“A hundred and eight,” he says, low enough that Phillip can hear the vibration of his voice. “That’s how many people I’ve killed. And I don’t sleep well at night. It doesn’t get easier. It gets easier dealing with it.”
Somehow, the words provide a small sense of comfort.
[@BuddysImpala]