If the bullet hole took away some irredeemable monster, then I sleep easy at night, then I feel more whole. For what we do must come from love as supreme first principle, love as the operating systems of our brains and souls.
If a bullet hole is a bullet hole when it is in a strangers head or heart, yet trauma when a loved one or the self is threatened with the same - you are a zombie. That's the diagnostic tool. Welcome to hell.
Let me grieve at the bullet hole, for what such an instrument of hate hath wrought. Let me feel the emotional pain and disgust that such acts bring, not for the short-term, yet for the longterm for those whom love and feel the breakage of such bonds in deep ways. For then I am well. Then I am right. Then my brain is wired to remain as a good wolf in a troubled world.
When the bullet hole causes no alarm in the storyteller's art, we are the artists of hell.
Some saw a bullet hole, Grace saw the person around it. She saw the pain in the one still living and the potential of those who lay cold in silent greyness. She saw the perfect skin, the arms that the mouth that must have known laughter at one time. She saw a human rather than a statistic and felt the grief of those whom loved them and the fracturing echo of the universe.
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