The Supervisor Read Online Free Page A

came home to, just a few hours ago, save that there are things no person should ever have taken from them. Beyond that horrendous finale of my life, my thinking became gray and nebulous. I retrieved my gun, and went back to the office in a manner more elusive than I thought even I was capable of. I parked around the corner, so as not to announce my arrival, and then crept my way up to our office building. Like one of those Japanese shadow-warriors, I stole my way into the building as quietly as possible, right through the lobby, down the hall, and into that madman’s office.
    I remember being starkly afraid at that moment. I wasn’t concerned about retribution for what I was about to do, nor was I worried about my ability to follow through with my deadly impulse. The only thing I remembered about that moment was the horrible fear that I would somehow alert the man to my presence. If Ted knew what I was about to do, if he heard the shifting of my hefty frame as I crept up behind him, I knew he would turn around, lay witness to my plan, and with that subtle crookedness of his, smile upon me as I pulled the trigger.
    Victory reigned over me in the end. Under the waves of crashing thunder, I killed The Great White. I killed him without his knowing, winning whatever was left to be had of his sick game. But beyond that, I failed miserably in this life. The cost of my folly was the dearest treasure of all. Ultimately, it shall bleed me out like a jagged laceration upon the femoral artery. One day, I may limp through the streets of freedom once again, after many long years spent in “psychotic rehabilitation,” but forever more I will be sentenced to carry the burden of my memories. I will see them in my mind just as clear as I see this plate of food before me; Kung Pao Chicken, with its golden-brown clumps, and sticky red swirls jumbled all together with flecks of white rice. Colors quite reminiscent of the car now pulling into the parking lot, with its dancing red lights bouncing off the cola-brown, glass window I am looking through… Merry Christmas, Dan.
    The End