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Sixteen

The sniper cut in front of a minivan full of kids, and the suburban mom behind the wheel honked and gave her the finger. That was the problem with the world today. Some example, Mom. But everyone was out for themselves, and that meant no one was reliable. Those who tried to convince others that human beings were mostly good were lullabying themselves into a coma, shutting out reality. Even well-meaning “friends” offered advice or sentiments tainted with their own personal ambitions. Like when her mother had died, and the nurses told her that Mother was in a better place. She found that hard to believe. It was easier to accept that the nurses just wanted to project self-importance—as if anyone was an authority on what happened to the dead.

In her last few years of Mother’s life, doctors claimed that a disease was eating her mind, but the sniper wondered if maybe her mother had been the most lucid of her life, attaining some elevated state of awakening. After all, the moments of clarity seemed to hit so intensely, the erratic swings from bitter heartbreak and devastation to acceptance and forgiveness so fierce, the sniper felt as if she’d experienced them firsthand.

Mother had gone on about the vileness of people in a hot rage some days, and on other days excused them. As if her suffering had been of no consequence—or even her own fault. And while her mother may have been willing to forgive and sweep over transgressions, the sniper wasn’t. And it didn’t matter how many days passed or how far she traveled.

The past was strapped to the bumper, clanging like a bunch of tin cans against the road in her wake. But every once in a while, a small voice would slither from the darkness and whisper that what she was doing was wrong. Like an interlude of conscience that would roll in with the fierceness of a tidal wave. Destructive yet restorative. At these times, she reminded herself she was simply defending herself against a world that had gotten her in its jowls, bit down, and shook her like she was in the throes of a rabid dog. So what if her actions were technically wrong—at least when measured against society’s standards? She couldn’t stop herself. Even with the FBI looking for her, she was determined to keep going until she finished her mission. And to complete said mission, she had to continue moving forward. To turn around now, to go into hiding would only be weakness.

“Fortuna favet fortibus!”

Fortune favors the strong.

She merged onto Interstate 395 East, headed toward her final stop, prepared to put an end to this mission once and for all. But her mind kept going back and forth, balancing the scales of good and bad and which way her actions would weigh heavier. Maybe she should heed the soft voice trying to be heard.

She reached into the console, pulled out an orange prescription bottle, and shook it. Empty. Just like she was—empty and adrift, with nothing to lose. She tossed the container into the back seat and pressed harder on the gas pedal, focused ahead.