INNER MUSINGS OF A SO-CALLED PSYCHO

The loss of his eyes. Sure it bothered him, how the hell would it not annoy him that someone had thought it amusing to dig out the very essence of his life.

Without his eyes he had nothing, it was arguable but when the final dotted red fucking line had been crossed... he needed them to do his job. What was he to do now? He couldn't continue on this road forever. There might be boulders, rocks, and hopefully women along the way, but it didnt help if he couldnt see said women.

But who cared? No one. Not that it bothered him, he was used to making his own way; to hell with everyone else. People thought him psychopathic, it was understandable sure. What they didnt understand was, it's all part of the Sheldon Jeffrey Sands package. Buy the ticket, take the ride, and dont hurl on the way out.

Sands sighed and ran his hands through his shaggy black hair. He would have taken the pain medication only he was having a good time trying to see how long he could last without reaching for the bottle.

This had always been a game with him, when on the job if he had been injured. it always came down to how long he could last until he reached for the pills. They were prescription pain killers given to him the first time he had ever been shot. The bottle had yet to be opened, the plastic seal was still around it and if truth be told he really didn't give a fuck. He'd probably just end up throwing the damn things out.

What was he to do now? Wasn't that the question of the year. Sitting in a bar drinking tequila had lost all it's appeal. Wow, he must be pretty far gone for that thought to have ran across his mind. But the same question applied. What was he to do now?

He considered calling for someone to come and get him, but that would defeat the purpose of the whole 'great' adventure he'd been on. The pitying looks he couldn't see, or even better the horrified muffled gasps people usually covered when they first saw him without the glasses on.

No.

He wouldn't call for help. That lodged something akin to pain in the back of his throat. His heart seized up, and his lungs ceased functioning for the split second that consideration was pondered over. He'd never needed help and he'd be damned if he was to start now.

No way.

No fucking way.

He was Agent Sands goddamnit and he would make it on his own or die trying. It's too bad the latter choice would most likely occur.

Oh well.

At least he could die happily. That thought brought a quirky smile to his lips. Yes. that was a good solution to this problem for now. A good woman, a cheap room, and finishing this shot of tequila.

Life wasn't good but it was about to get a hell of a lot better. He walked out of the bar putting the hat on his head and straightening his glasses. Enough of the self-pity shit.

Fuck everyone else, he'd be better and he'd retrain himself to use his own goddamn gun. He was Agent Sands, former CIA Agent and the terror of all previous partners. He didn't have one now, he didn't want one now.

It was time to face the daylight.