Breakthroughs
Price fumbles a crumbly old box that breaks. A cascade of file folders fall out. He ignores them.
He spots a box, labeled, “Snug,” and rips it open. He pulss out a brown paper bag, and from it a handgun. He plops down on a short stack of boxes and holds the gun in his hand, staring at it. He sits and stares. His stare falls beyond his hand on a folder fallen among others on the floor, labeled with the name of a hypnotist. He stares at it blankly for a while, tries to ignore it, then, finally, reluctantly picks it up and opens it. At the top of the first page it reads, “Findings. March 3, 1982. Subject: Price Taylor. Age 32. Treatment for Nail Biting.”
Price reads the two page report. He blinks rapidly, mouth set in a hard line. His chin falls into his hand as he re-reads. Tears well in his eyes. After the third reading he lets the report drop from his hand and to the floor.
“Shit. Shit.” He rubs the sudden ache in the back of his neck.
He sits for a long time. The sun is setting along a flat, heat simmering horizon. He puts the gun back in the bag, then in his pocket. He stands and stares at the last angry red glow of the sun as it sinks below the straight edge horizon. Buzzards circle in the distance.
