[ WP ] After working a hard day , , I came home to see my girlfriend cradling our child . I did n't know what was more frightening , seeing my dead girlfriend and stillborn child , or knowing that someone broke in and placed them there .

`` After working a hard day, I came home to see my girlfriend cradling our child. I did n't know what was more frightening, seeing my dead girlfriend and stillborn child, or knowing that someone broke in and placed them there.'' 
 
 Guys in bars always talked to me. Telling me their life story, over a pint of beer or two. Sometimes the ladies chatted, but usually they used their breasts to do the talking. What can I say? I'm a boob man. 
 
 This guy, man, he's come into the bar probably every day for the past two months. I do n't know how he has enough money to keep paying his tab, but at least he tips well. He rambles a lot, though, and I wish he'd stop talking about his dead family. I do n't usually mind when people drown their sorrows, because usually their sorrows are commonplace. Girlfriend cheated on them, lost a job, cheated on a girlfriend and regret it. Dead girlfriend with a dead baby? Not something they covered when training me to bartend. 
 
 This dude must have some mental stuff, because I do n't think anyone keeps a stillborn baby after it's born, and also, who the hell puts dead people in a house? As long as he pays his tab, it's not my business, but I feel bad. Maybe he's having a psychotic break. The only part of his story that's coherent is about him finding his dead family. The rest is mumbles, gestures, and crazy eyes. 
 
 I do n't even know his name. He pays in cash, at the end of each night. He never has more than three drinks, and I've never had to take his keys. He does n't act drunk, but he just ca n't tell me anything more than somebody put his girlfriend and baby in the house after they died. Maybe it's a weird way of grieving. 
 
 `` Hey bud, it's closing time.'' I call to him. He nods, places cash on the table and starts to walk out. `` Hey, uh, what's your name?'' Dang it, if I'm gon na see him, at least I can be friendly. 
 
 He starts, like nobody's asked him that in years. As he turns his head to answer, I hear a pop and the front window shatters. The man drops to the floor, blood pooling around his body. Guests, most of whom are pissed, scream and wobble off stools and and out of booths. I pull my gun from under the counter, and crouch behind the nearest booth, frantically scanning for the gunman. I hear a lady desperately wheezing into her phone for 911 to send police to the bar. I decide to take the risk to see if the man's still alive. 
 
 I take the safety off the gun, dash to him, and kneel down. `` Hey, man, hey, you with me?'' He turns his eyes on me, and I can see the blood coming out of his chest. He blinks, struggling to breathe. 
 
 `` She was murdered, and I ca n't do anything about it. Now I'm murdered, and I ca n't do anything about it. Life is cruel, eh?'' He wheezes. 
 
 `` Hey, you're not going to die!'' He and I both know that's a lie. 
 
 `` My name's Ethan, but that does n't matter. I'm sorry for the mess.'' He struggles to pull an envelope out of his pocket and hand it to me. `` Please, you must stop them..'' Ethan's eyes close in a melodramatic way. The rise and fall of his chest stops. 
 
 I take the envelope, quickly stuffing it into my pocket. If he got murdered for this, I do n't want to get murdered for it. Boots thumping and agitated shuffling behind me makes me turn around. I can see soldiers, or at least men with guns, running towards the bar. Seems like it's time to go.
