Page 101 - www.composition1.com

between. How can one who suffers from misanthropy find a cure to stop the clotting. Eventually,
one can die from such a disease.

There was a Winter night where I had a dream in which I was interrogating someone while my
father watched. I couldn't see him because the darkness of the shadows hid him well, but I knew he
was there. The son of a bitch who I am questioning doesn't believe that I am willing to go as far as
shooting him to get what I need to know out of him. So now he's taunting me, telling me that I don't
have it in me. He's right, I don't. At least not yet.

He keeps talking, and I'm thinking of something I could do to shut him up and get him saying the
words that I actually want to hear out of his mouth. Now I'm taking a pocketknife out of my pocket.
"Oh, now you're going to cut me?" He laughs. No, I'm not going to cut him.

I put my hand on a table, and now he's quiet. I start to hack away at my one of my fingers, and I
know I have his respect and attention now. After a while he is completely silent. I pick up my now
unattached finger and wave it in his face. Then I put the gun to his heart and give him a cold stare
that you could only get from someone who has ice-water in their veins. Someone so cold and so far
gone that any attempt to save them would only further progress their destruction. Something like a
therapist who fuels the part of you that needs therapy and ultimately is successful in doing the
complete opposite of what is listed in his job description.

Not a second later, I have him believe that I actually am insane and now he's telling me more than
I needed to know. My father comes out of the darkness and tells me that we need to go now. We
leave the man there and walk through a hidden door, and the next thing I know, I'm sitting
somewhere with my father and he's trying to tell me something but I can't hear him. After we both
get up and start walking down a dark hallway, his voice reaches me and I can finally hear him.

On the news they say the police department has made the biggest drug bust this year last night
when they raided a home that sits on the corner of a street. With fifty kilograms of heroin seized, it
makes it one of the more notable drug busts since the biggest drug bust this city has ever seen back
in the 1980s.

Along with the drugs, they found money and weapons, and of course a few people to put in
handcuffs and question later. At a press conference, there is a man who I'm assuming has some
kind of dominating rank who addresses the people and answers their questions. Lieutenant Scott
Merils. He talks about how this accomplishment would not have been possible had it not been for
the recent initiation of a new task force with the help of the mayor designed to improve the quality
of life in the city.

I start to think about Derek and wonder if he is anywhere near all of this. For some reason the
thought reminds me of when Tao asked me if I had ever wondered if I read a book written by a
criminal who had never been caught. "Just imagine, you're reading a book by a serial killer who
never got caught and you never even knew." I can only hope that when I looked at Derek, I wasn't
looking at a person who had it in his nature to become a criminal.

I open my apartment door and head down the flight of stairs to check my mail. What kind of junk