‘Oh, I see,’ Cynthia began. ‘You’re sorry you lost your precious Alex. Well, that’s what happens to sluts like you, Catherine. I hope Damon ...as a good fuck, at least,’ she mocked her. ‘Leave me alone,’ she replied with a calmness she was beyond feeling. ‘I’ve only come to give you your brooch back. I wouldn’t want you to call me a thief,’ she smiled wickedly. Catherine turned around slowly. She picked up her purse and walked towards Cynthia. She took the brooch from her hand and pushed her to. How he hated this Sunday each year, hated the march of veterans, but was drawn in some morbid fascination annually. Each year, he observed the file of crippled soldiers, long since passed their usefulness to a society doing it's best to forget for the other three hundred and sixty four days, except in the glorified films of heroic deeds with John Wayne, or another popular actor, leading a squad of crack troopers into an impossible confrontation, with overwhelming odds being beaten at the loss. More

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