For every action, there is an equal reaction. That pious platitude has never been so true, except that, in this very moment, the reaction is way above the action. And also, it has already happened before. So fuck this sentence, and fuck the twisted mind where that shit came from, your laws can't be applied here. In fact, there isn't one left to be applied.

I should take a deep breath to calm myself, if only I could remember what being calm meant. I feel sweat is dripping from my forehead and at the same time, I feel so cold I'm shaking. Especially my hand, the one that I've raised to open the door.

Why am I doing this? It's not like there's something for me past that door except death. At least, that's what my guts are screaming to me. I know what is waiting for me, things that everybody seems to be able to do without thinking about them. But they are blind and I'm one-eyed. What was left of morality and dignity has been shredded by the call of fanaticism. If only I could gouge the other eye, but it's too late. It has been too late the moment where I chose to remain upright.

"Honey?"

I hear my wife's voice behind me. I look at her and try to smile. In a previous life, I would have find her beautiful but now, she looks ugly. Her eyes are filled with fear, she doesn't know if she will see me tonight. She reminds me that I'm a fool for trying to look braver just for her but I don't want to disappoint her. So I lie.

"Don't worry, I'll be fine."

She tries to smile too. It makes her look uglier and I want to punch myself.

"Why don't you take a day off?"

I hear that she wants to leave. It's not the first time she asks me this but I can't. I'm supposed to be a shepherd -no, I'm a shepherd- even if the sheep have become wolves. I have to keep watch of the flock. They devour each other to the slightest hint of weakness but I'll be there, even if can't do anything, I'll try.

I can't manage to give her an answer but it doesn't matter. She already knows it and she doesn't have to hear it for the hundredth time. She disappears in the kitchen, leaving me alone, me and the door.

My hand manages to reach the knob and to grasp it firmly. I hear gunshots outside and my grisp becomes rigid.

Maybe tomorrow, I could be stronger tomorrow, but I know that I won't. So I touch my handgun in its holster with my other hand. I feel like a monkey hanging on a reed during a hurricane. At least, it's enough to finally open the door. Before it closes, I hear crying from the kitchen. I don't stop and push the lift call button.

For every action, there is an equal reaction.

Fuck. You.