Work

I pulled into the parking lot at work, and I honestly wasn't thinking much about that dead old man. I didn't have time for feeling sorry for what happened. After all, I do have bills to pay.  Besides, it didn't change my life at all.  So why should I care?

I walked into work with my a clear head.  That old man wasn't going to get to me...never...never...never.  I could care less about him.  It meant nothing to me. I didn't even cry.  It didn't bother me. I sat there at my desk and finished up the financial reports. 

On my drive home I couldn't stop thinking about that old man.  I don't give a crap about him being dead.  The flashbacks of the glass stuck in his neck with the blood pouring out everywhere didn't bother me.  Not at all.  I pressed my foot on the accelerator and drove faster and faster until I made it home. 

I watched some television to get the thought of him out of my head.  It helped, a little.  I still think about him.  I see his face crying out to me everywhere I go.  I can almost hear his last whispered words.  I can still see the twisted metal of his car and the broken glass. 

I still don't care about it though.  I think about it a lot, but it doesn't really bother me.

The End

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