He stood watching the sun slowly form yellow lines along the tiled floor of the den.  He’d be drunk most of the night.  He bought his last call at one AM at the liquor store that doubled as a meth lab, two bottles of low grade wine purchased mostly with pennies from his girlfriend’s piggy bank.  She sat sleeping, the blanket moving up in down in the glow of his computer screen.  They’d fought over his escapades, which were becoming a daily occurrence, and she threw him out of the bedroom to sleep with the dog in the laundry room on a shit stained futon.  He groped his stubble and felt a growing feeling of paranoia and dread when the morning birds began to chirp.  He tooted the last strain of speed from a vial, took the gun he inherited from his father, and went quietly into the morning light while people sipped coffee from travel mugs and chewed donuts as they pulled out of nearby driveways, never to see the pandemonium surrounding this man’s house by mid-morning with her blood curdling screams.