Right now, as I stand here with this gun in my hand, aiming for the left temple of my so-called husband’s head, I think of nothing but how wonderful it would feel and how beautiful it would look to see that silver bullet slice through his brain. Damaging tissue, veins and memories. To see his worthless body slowly fall forward, his head making a soft tap against the hardwood floors. I would watch silently as his blood spilled onto the floor, creating a pool of crimson liquid.
Then I would wipe the gun of any prints, slip it into his hand and be free. Hell, it was his gun anyways. But, even though all that seemed so damn simple, I couldn’t do it. I was prepared, I had everything mapped out. My finger was ready and on the trigger, slowly applying pressure as time went on.