I don’t have to pull the trigger. As long as I can keep my eyes open and on
him, this can be over. He’s backing
away, with his head lowered and cringing like a reprimanded dog, I can see it even through blurred vision. I can feel the burning imprint of his hands
on the sides of my neck, throbbing with my heartbeat. Each throb and my index finger twitches a
little. I don’t have to pull the
trigger. My mind is a haze of fury,
relief, and gratitude that I had put the little Ruger in my night stand drawer
the night before. I hate him; I’m beginning
to realize it fully in my fevered, oxygen deprived brain. But I don’t have to pull the trigger. My heart is beating harder and I can feel the
nerves tightening rhythmically in my forearm with each contraction. I’m free now and this can end. I don’t have to pull the trigger.
I close my eyes.