Upstairs, at the end of the first row of files, sheets of paper so brittle from age and molded. The typewriter cut through on all the “o’s”, dirt, smears and smudges. But read some of the words there. Someone took vengeance with that typing machine. Someone kicked him when he was down.
But who’s going to find it? The whole building, these old files in paper boxes, the dry air. It will all turn into black dust with only nails and paperclips remaining. All that anger washed away by the rain after the fire, or sticking to the bottom of your boots.
Dig through the ashes and you might find a half-burned sheet way down in the black muck. Half a paragraph of vitriol and bitterness. It will still get you. Beyond his grave and even after a ruinous fire this guy will still get you. His words will hook into your pasty flesh like barbwire and rip it up a little. And when you try to run it will rip more. Just as you twist to free yourself it will dig deeper into your bloody ankle and pull you down, dragging you across the ash back into your own hate. Once that’s started you’re not the same. And the only way to free yourself is to start cutting…

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