I was walking down a lonely street thinking about one of my friends, who just a few months earlier, was alive and well. Now he is resting peacefully next to his great-grandfather just outside of Moscow. A shudder ran down my spine as I recalled that fateful November night when the world came crashing at my feet. I received an urgent call. It was his mother. She told me I needed to go to the hospital at that very moment. I tried to question her, but she continued to shout, “My boy is dead. They murdered my boy.” Frantically I drove to the emergency room. I found his mother sitting in the waiting room, sobbing silently. I asked the doctor what had happened to my friend. “He was shot seven times in his abdomen,” was the doctor’s only reply. His hysterical girlfriend, Sascha, ran toward me screaming that I was the reason he was there. Sascha calmed herself after she realized that she could not overpower me. We sat in the cold, sterile waiting room. The smell of death was cling...
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