Lead Solution.

I have yet, another moment, to pardon myself, the insatiable gourmendising of abundant lore, that unto which the numerals of things, both known and unknown, have formed a rather exquisite parable. It is one which, in the prudent duration of the mastered interval, has intruded desirably like the strum of an instrument, upon the designated key note, arousing a poignant color of sensation. I must share, what has been rendered to my account, in the arbitrary sketch of chronology, without ramifying the very purport of its necessity. I was a melancholy youth, arrested in the hollow confines of unquantifiable, pecuniary inaptitude, and my delinquent pursuits were often something of a collateral castration, from the common endowment. During this time I only lived with my mother, an insufferable woman of volatile dysfunction, and obtuse prejudice. Her censures were grandiose, desultory, and imbued with that chronic pathology of unadulterous narcissism, when infringed upon the titular law of "motherhood". It was pathetic yes, the contentious quarrels and the augmented strain of egregious manifestos, "I am your mother, and so it is not tyranny!" I had no care for this. My father had been gone for decades, and my only concern was alcohol, and my healthy rapport with my friend Christopher. He lived just a few houses away, and in mutual truancy from scholastic residence, I made frequent visit to him, for an indulge in the extemporized leisures of unorthodox fascination. It was those conceived from the angst of cold desolation, and the utter bleakness of misanthropy.

He was usually in possession of a pistol, that which he had procured from his father, and made morbid remarks of revolutionary anarchy, as he shot little rabbits in the yard. I remember when he gazed at me, with those grey listless eyes, which remained unpunctual to the transient command of physiognomy, as if affected with abulia and said,

"Our woes are our own, the world will not listen, it will only judge what has been made apparent. There is no haven for us, not in the schools and not in the churches. We must seize what we have..." And here the speaker picked up the old pistol, with uncanny intensity, and with an obscene gesture, as it regarded his temple in the allusion of suicide, he continued with a chuckle,

"We must rid ourselves of these curses" I gasped, as the pistol chirped. It was empty. He continued in cachinnating villainy and arose from the sofa as he equiped my palms with the weapon, and with a suspense to his comportment, he grinned the words,

"Where shall we begin" the luridness of it all made me cold, but for reasons, unholy and unfathomable, I felt assured. We spent the afternoon lounged in the precinct, listening to a record player. It was an enthusiastic retelling of Dante's inferno. At length it was night, and after much converse, and dispute over hypothetical conundrums of fantastic parallels, I requested that he escort me home. His father had not returned for the nonce, and so we adopted a casualty to our saunter until, upon reaching my abode, we discovered my mother lingering in the moonlit outdoors. She spoke with a stentorian voice, and a torrent of insults ensued. At length, I fumbled the pistol, which I had clandestinely snuck into the envelope of my torn trousers pocket, and pointed it at the old woman. My lip quivered with disdain, but in my apprehension, I heard Christopher speak,

"Do it, they are the problem remember?!" It was then that, as I paused lengthily Christopher paced to me, seized the weapon aggressively, and fired it, twice at the old woman who now slumped onto the ground, and remained inert, upon a profuse pool of rich crimson blood.