I drove the interstate home thinking about how all the irritation and anger and frustration and finally acquiescence I felt toward Murray’s terminal situation these last few months all boiled down to these two things: He was a drunk. He hurt me when I was young. But I don’t think either affliction was intentional. Or my fault. Or anyone’s fault. And it really sucks to hold inside all this pain and have nowhere to put it. No one to blame for it.
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