The darkness was bleak. He heard the sound of movement. Footsteps. Someone was walking through the house. Drawers slid open on plastic rollers and something heavy was extracted, somewhat noisily, from inside. He smelled a wood fireplace. Smoke. His vision was impaired—not unfocused as much as just blurry. Too bright, here. Too dark, there. He realized he wasn’t in his own house. It frightened him because he had no idea whose it was. He’d never been there before. He looked down and saw his shoes walking, except they weren’t his shoes. He never wore brown boots. He didn’t own a rug like the one beneath his feet.
He raised his right hand with some difficulty and beheld a pistol. He turned his wrist first right and then left and examined the metallic weapon. He couldn’t name the brand or the style—he knew nothing about guns—and he couldn’t understand why he held this one.
Scott felt his body fall backwards only to flop into a lounge chair. Cloth upholstery, not leather like the one in his living room, surrounded him. His feet raised and his head dropped into a reclining position.
He searched the house for an indication of his whereabouts. The newspaper was too far away to read the heading, but he assumed it was the local paper. Something, maybe magazines, were stacked on a nearby table, but they were face down. He couldn’t read the titles or tell the dates. The smoky smell changed, morphed, became clearer. It smelled like cigarette smoke. Scott didn’t smoke cigarettes. Turning his head more to the right he saw a picture frame containing a photo of a man holding the hand of an elderly lady in a hospital bed, her eyes barely open, almost lifeless. He stared at the photo for a long, long time, unable to recognize the woman. But the man looked familiar, like Frank Johnson. The frame brightened and then darkened.
Then he saw the pistol rise up and slide into his mouth. He tasted the bitter metal and smelled the distinct gun powder odor.
His world exploded.
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