Satisfaction (+)

One round... that's it — a .223 Remington... Braxten rolled that bullet between his fingers for hours. His roommate, an older man named Alan hadn't noticed, but Braxten had been siphoning ammo from his store room for days. He worked too much and played too little, though they still managed to kick a few beers back on a daily basis. Alan often turned to vodka by the end of a night, after breaking down a few xanax and passing out in his chair. He hadn't had any time for hunting in awhile, completely clueless to Braxten and his intentions, just on the other side of some dry wall and planks of wood, maybe a few layers of paint. Alan kept that rifle out, maybe as a reminder, or maybe just to torture himself. What's family for anyway?

"Just one more night," Braxten told himself, stocking 20 rounds into the magazine.