1I leave out the names and most descriptions, letting the reader's imagination take the story where it will.
Sitting at the end of the bar, I watch her through alcohol tainted eyes. Her long black hair moves in waves down her back as she laughs, putting one delicate hand on the arm of the man that isn't me. There is a slight difference of skin tone on one finger, where her ring should be. Instead it sits on the nightstand on her side of the bed, next to her reading glasses and a picture of us.
He is whispering in her ear now, most likely promises for after they leave the bar. His words leave a smile on her pink lips. She's nodding, pressing her lithe body against his. She is swaying ever so slightly to the music, the smile on her face turning seductive.
Bile rises in my throat. I should have never come home a day early. When I found her ring, I should have stayed home. When she walked through the doors of this bar, of all the bars in town, I should have discreetly left. When I saw him make his move, I should have looked away.
Instead I stay focused on them, or rather her. The way his hands move against the small strip of skin between her low riding jeans and slinky top, his fingers tracing her small tattoo, makes me want to break his hands. I have never really been a violent man, but the sight of him desecrating her with his unworthy hands makes my blood boil.
He stands and takes her hand, leading her through the crowd. I follow, curious as to where he will further defile her. They lead me to our home and I can't say I am surprised. If our marriage means so little to her, letting him take her in the bed we share won't bother her one bit.
She doesn't bother to hide the evidence a man lives there. The only thing that shows me a sliver of remorse is the way she slides our wedding photo into her nightstand drawer, along with her ring. He wastes no time, pushing her onto the bed and hovering over her.
While they are caught up in each other, I quietly move into my office, locating what I need quickly. Going into our room confidently, no trace of doubt in my mind, I stand at the foot of our bed. He sees me and flings himself off of her with a shout of surprise.
He doesn't see it coming, as the bullet tears into his chest. She cries out, whether in fear or sadness I do not know. I turn to her, looking at the woman I once thought of as perfection. Her makeup smeared, tears running down her pale face. Her usually smooth, perfect hair sticks up at odd angles. I laugh as I raise the gun to my head. What a silly notion of perfection.
I hear her scream as I pull the trigger, coating our room in the memories I no longer care to remember. A perfect end to the night, isn't it?
Hope you enjoyed.
-Miss Misery