Fitzgerald Compson
Just some dude who loves writing.
1953. Jeremy still remembered the night like the back of his car. Which was ironic, cause his car wasn’t much to look at. His palms sweaty whenever it was brought up. His neck dripping. His eyes glazing. He’d silently curse his mom to the 9th circle of hell whenever she talked about the ol’e days ‘Those ol’e days. I’d wrap mah hands ‘round them ol’e days and squeeze the life outta it.’
He still remembered her voice.
’Insufferable prick.’ She yelled.
”Can’t even keep a house on his own ‘ead!” She yelled.
No. That wasn’t his mother. It was his wife. The woman he killed.
He’d killed her that day.
’Ain’ even his fault! Poor bastard was exhausted!’‘ The police would justify. Their batons raised in their air in justification. The woman sobbed. The men cheered. The dogs barked. The cars vroomed.
How did it get to that point? Touchy subject, but I’m sure he’ll tell you once he feels like it. Maybe there is more to it than just him being an exhausted bastard who murdered his annoying wife.
He still remembered her voice.
’Insufferable prick.’ She yelled.
”Can’t even keep a house on his own ‘ead!” She yelled.
No. That wasn’t his mother. It was his wife. The woman he killed.
He’d killed her that day.
’Ain’ even his fault! Poor bastard was exhausted!’‘ The police would justify. Their batons raised in their air in justification. The woman sobbed. The men cheered. The dogs barked. The cars vroomed.
How did it get to that point? Touchy subject, but I’m sure he’ll tell you once he feels like it. Maybe there is more to it than just him being an exhausted bastard who murdered his annoying wife.
