It had been raining off and on all evening. The side streets glistened with street lamp light and wet pavement, sparkling with broken glass in the gutters. John Stell, wearing his trench coat, staggered loosely from side to side trying desperately to keep his balance. A bottle neck stuck out of his trench coat pocket as he swaggered down the sidewalk, veering intermittently into the street. He stubbed his shoe at a transition between pavement and cobble stone and came to a halt, full stop, in front of the abandon Won antique shop. His memory would not be denied as it traced his every move that fateful day when his life, and everybody close to him, changed forever. John had an immaculate visual of the horrified look on young Rayman Stell’s face - watching through the fogged window as he staggered toward him with a bullet in his shoulder. His shoulder would never be the same. It always ached. Always.
A car screeched to a halt and honked. John stood still and sloppily waived the car passed. The car veered around him and continued on into the night. John took a draw from his bottle and walked defiantly down the middle of the empty street.
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