I stood there shaking. I was scared, nervous and furious all at the same damn time. Blood splattered over my white dress. I guess you’re not supposed to wear white after Labor Day, but if I had worn all black would things have went down differently? I stood there in sorrow as I watched my husband take his last breath, with a knife to his heart. But I was angry. Flashbacks of his infidelity replayed in my head as I watched him die. I kneeled, next to him to hold his hand in mine. I loved him, but I needed him to feel what I felt. The pain I went through each and every day as I pretended to forgive him. I was filled with resentment. I was so bitter; not like myself. I could have left him, but he would still be hurting me. He’d be living his life, like we should have been living ours, happy with someone else. So, to help the both of us, I ended his life. As if the knife to his heart wasn’t enough I punched him vigorously. I cried out loudly, “I love you, I hate you, I love you. I…Hate…You.” Not sure which one I believed more. He’s gone so it doesn’t really matter which statement was true. He’d never understand, never get to feel again. Neither would I. I removed his pistol off his waist, barely stable enough to hold it, as I recited the Lord’s prayer. Each verse slipping off my lips as if I would actually make it to heaven. No sooner than “Amen” whispered of my tongue. I pulled the trigger. Boom!
“Writers arent exactly people…they’re a whole bunch of people trying to be one person.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald