I was looking at my post and it struck me that the way I have been writing has been like I am writing a fiction novel, not like I am writing about my life (one of the main trauma events that happend to me). I don't know if this was my way of trying to protect myself or what, but it's weird.

My heart rate has been picking up just logging on the internet, I think getting this all down is effecting me more than I'd like to think. I'm here, so I may as well continue, but hopefully in a less narrated fashion.

So there I was, sitting in front of the door to the kitchen, crouched on my knees with my hands over my ears hodling my breath, straining to hear the nightmare that was unraveling behind me. I heard my manager Scott come out of the back office, I heard the tone of his voice change as he must have seen the blood on Al's face, the stranger holding him and the gun in his hand. I heard the gunmans voice demand the key to the safe again and I knew that this was escalating. I heard Scott tell him in a shaky voice "sure man, I'll give you the key, just don't hurt anyone, ok?". I don't know what happend next, all I could hear was the gunman yelling and then I heard rapid gunshots. I knew Scott had been shot because I heard him grunting when the bullet hit his kneck, then the grunts turned to moans of pain, disbelief and dispair. I am criing now because I really liked Scott, we spent alot of time together and we were friends, not just coworkers. I hate that I heard that come from him, it was the most awful noise I have ever heard.