WEEK 37: Shoving the gun in his bloodied mouth

Prompted by: Yamna Rashid

The crazy author says: I took creative license and shortened the original suggestion (“I shoved the gun into his bloodied mouth”) to 7 words cuz I like 7 😏

The crazy author also says: Yeah, I’m reusing some chick’s name from a past flash fiction for the dude. Don’t judge me. Thanks.

I couldn’t breathe. I might throw up again. I was having another panic attack. Shaking uncontrollably. Like a dog shitting razorblades. Or a cat pissing goddamn shurikens.

My name was barely legible.

But it didn’t matter.

Because it was done.

As I set the pen atop our signed divorce papers, he actually had the nerve to reach for me.

And I wanted to let him. I wanted to give in. I wanted to surrender. I wanted…

Him.

I simply wanted him.

So badly it made my chest ache. So desperately I whimpered aloud. Nearly moaned as if I was a fucking bitch in heat.

It’s over.

Instead, I slapped his hand away and muttered, “Don’t you dare.”

The asshole took a hold of my chin anyway and gently tipped it upward.

Clenching my jaw until it creaked, I narrowed my eyes and met the gaze of Satan head-on. Ready for exactly what I knew would be lurking in the endless depths of night. For what I’d no doubt find in the eternal void of darkness.

Anger. Wrath. Death and destruction.

I was fully prepared to confront it all. I just wasn’t prepared for what I saw. I couldn’t process what was staring back at me.

Regret.

An overwhelming surge of regret. A devastating flood of emotion. It was too much. I was immediately sucked under. Drowning in the motherfucker’s sea of pain.

Then his lips parted, clearly forming, I’m sorry.

And everything became a blur.

It happened so fast. I swiped the ammo from the bedside table. Along with my husband’s gorgeous, matte black Desert Eagle. I wasn’t even shaking anymore. I was too pissed off to shake.

I didn’t even realize what I was doing.

Not until I felt it. The cool metal against my fingertips as I inserted the mag. The smooth steel against my palm as I pulled back on the slide.

Locked and loaded. In a nanosecond.

Shoving the gun in his bloodied mouth, I growled, “Don’t you fucking dare.”

He touched my face with an impossible amount of tenderness, catching a tear as it rolled down my cheek. A smile slowly curved around the barrel, completely devoid any of joy.

Full of sadness and nothing else.

He wouldn’t stop me from killing him. Nobody would stop me. Not Slick. Not even Doc. Not this time. They’d just stand by and watch. Useless pansies. Every single last one of them.

And fucking liars too.

“I’ll never make you cry, Izzy.”

That’s what he had said to me. A lifetime ago. It was the only promise he’d ever made. Never told me he loved me. Never once said those words. But he’d sworn to never make me cry.

Well, you know what?

Fuck him.

I withdrew the weapon from between his perfect teeth and dropped the damn thing in his lap.

“Goodbye, Slim.”