Note: This was a work I had feelings about putting on here. It gets a bit graphic on the violence end. If that is something you have a hard time with, then it's a-okay to skip this one. I wrote it some years ago when I was in a weird place in my life. Harris Johnson walked home late at night, to his small apartment in North Port. He had stayed out late, having a few drinks to numb his unease over losing his job earlier that day. He had worked at a bank, in a back financial office, dealing in corporate finance and leasing. It had been the second job he had of that nature, and couldn’t stand them—but they paid well. He wasn’t sure why he had been fired; had he taken one too many days off? He thought about it as he shuffled home. “Good riddance” he thought to himself, trying to bluff himself out of his concern. When he arrived, he unlocked his door, but not before missing the key slot half a dozen times in his buzzed and exhausted state. He dragged himself in, placing his hat and ...