This guy sickens me. He thinks he can try to force me to take a walk in his shoes, see things from his perspective. Heh. I think I’ll take my Glock and put this guy in his place. Frazzle his nerves a bit. Leave some scars.

I stand across the room from him. He didn’t hear me enter; he’s occupied with something he’s holding in his hand. Now’s my chance.

I shoot him once, twice, three times, point-blank in the chest. He barely suspected anything. He’s howling in pain.

But why am I howling too?

And why does my chest feel like someone has just shot me three—

I fall to the floor, fading fast now. I could swear that I’m seeing things through the eyes of the guy I just shot. On the floor is a bottle, that ugly shade of semitransparent orange that pharmacists have stockpiled in the billions. I see my name on it—what?

Risperdal? That medicine’s for—

—schizophrenia?

It dawns on me.

God in Heaven forgive me. I’ve just committed murder and suicide in the same instant.

I’ve just committed self-terrorism.