It's all been planned. No evidence to point towards me. I've taken all the necessary steps, accounted for all the details. My right hand, wrapped in a leather glove, is in the pocket of my trench coat, grasping a revolver. The left one pushes open the heavy iron gat. Walking up the steps to the front door, blood red images of rage flash through my head. They fill my insides with fire and knives until I want to scream. But I stop myself. No screaming. I have to be a ghost.
When I turn the handle on the front door and see the perfect little world inside, I almost have to laugh. White walls,…
