when Grace drove away from Wild Bill’s, leaving the two punks gaping. If her energy held up, she could make the trip in six or seven hours. If she started feeling less than optimal, she’d stop in Monterey. For the first fifty miles, she tried to empty her head by listening to music. Unsuccessful; her brain pinged rudely through Bach and doo-wop and alternative rock and jazz, a heckler at a lecture. Random noise clarified to a yammering voice reminding her. She’d killed a man. How did she feel about that? She didn’t know. Rationalization was obvious: bad guy, obvious self-defense. But still, it was odd. The fact that she’d actually ended a life. The permanence. The sound of her victim’s corpse bumping down the canyon grew to a drumbeat. Her victim. Not an everyday event, dispatching another human being. She knew from her training that soldiers had trouble getting used to it. So how did she feel about it? She really didn’t know. Focus. All right then, the old affective system, first.
What do You think about The Murderer's Daughter (2015)?
