Disclaimer: I don't own the DogsI'm just playing with them.



I didn't know anyone had that much blood in them, but you're lying there, still alive, still breathing, in what looks like an ocean of sticky redness. Your hands are coated in it, like mine as I bend over you, trying to find some way to help you, some way to ease the pain I can see in your eyes. Seems like this whole day's been soaked in blood – the bodies in the jewellers, those cops I killed, blood on that girl's shirt, bloodstains on white leather as you screamed in agony, blood on my hands. So much fuckin' blood.



I take a comb from my pocket, running it through your sweat-soaked hair. You smile. I know it's foolish, but it's something to do, something to keep my mind off what you must be going through, something to keep you from concentrating on the pain that I hear in your voice. Your skin's pale, soaked in sweat, smeared with blood. I've never been this close to a dying man before, and it's tearing me apart, watching you suffer. Why did it have to be you? If I'd picked another car, if I'd gone round that side, you wouldn't be dying.



I know I'm crying, but I can't stop the tears rolling down my face. How could you do this? How could you betray us, betray me? And how did I care for you, befriend you? You're a cop. You're a cop. Cops aren't people, but I cared for you, I helped you, and you threw it back in my face. It's so hard to take in, but I know what I have to do. And you know too, I can see it. You know. My hand shakes, but I'm resolute, pressing the barrel to your cheek. I pull the trigger.