Stride, stride, turn.  Stride, stride, turn.  Lenny needed to keep the bomb in his head from exploding, needed to keep it moving, made it tick slower.  Sometimes thinking helped too.  Thoughts racing was the same as feet racing.  All that mattered was movement.  Always movement.  He went to his kitchen and opened the fridge.  The light came on, but nothing was there.  At least nothing good.  Maybe he wasn’t hungry anyway.  He closed it.  Stride, stride, turn.  Stride, stride, turn.  The bomb was ticking away inside his head, tick, tick, tick.  He smacked himself to try and resettle it, maybe turn it off.  It didn’t work.  He went back to pacing.  Stride, stride, turn.  Stride, stride, turn.  He checked the lights.  He didn’t know why.  They still worked, though, that’s good.  Stride, stride turn. Stride, stride turn.  In the hallway were five paintings, Lenny straightened each one in turn, trying to get them just right.  The last one wouldn’t stay where he wanted it, so he tore it off the wall and put his knee through it.  Then he smashed up the frame before throwing the pieces to clatter against the wall.  Stride, stride, turn.  Stride, stride, turn.  He remembered that he had laundry in the dryer.  He sat down to fold it, but the fitted sheet wouldn’t cooperate.  He balled it up and threw it in the hamper.  Stride, stride, turn.  Stride, stride, turn.  He picked up the pieces of the picture frame and threw them in the trash.  He picked at his hand where he picked up a splinter.  No big deal though.  Not like he got a bomb in his hand.  Stride, stride, turn.  Stride, stride, turn.  He grabbed the sheets from the hamper.  Might as well make the bed.  He pulled the corners over, and then went back to make sure they were all perfect.  Neat and tight.  He threw the top sheet over, then stepped back.  The right side was too low.  He pulled the left side.  Now it was too low.  He pulled the right side.  Back, and forth, back and forth, until it was perfect.  He folded it back and then tucked it in all the way around.  Perfect.  Stride, stride, turn.  Stride, stride, turn.  He went back to the kitchen.  He wasn’t hungry.  He looked around anyway.

A knife.  Of course.  Why didn’t he think of that before?

He tested the knife with his thumb.  Yes.  Very sharp.  It would work well.  He raised the knife to his head.

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