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I knew what happened when I saw the scene:
Doug caressed the revolver and whispered to it. And it whispered back. The bullet entered Doug’s head, and it ruptured his eyeball.
That hateful machinery of death:
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continued across the orbital wall and through his ethmoid sinuses, which are those hollow areas around the nose, and
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it fractured his frontal sinus, causing the leakage of cerebrospinal fluid;
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the bullet missed the major arteries of the sinuses — this ensured that there won’t be any more bleeding.
Finally, that 7.82-mm intention of death whistled past his left orbital floor and out above his right cheekbone.
I held Doug’s hand, staunched the gushing of blood from his eye, and told him a lie: Everything will be alright.
But it was a safe lie, a good lie. Doug died with me plugging his eye socket with a towel. It’s better that he calls it a night instead of living a miserable existence in this life.
I felt his heart flutter, and he gave one final wink with his good eye. I sighed with relief, because we were in agreement.
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