Jake sat at the small wooden desk in the hotel room. The thick woven drapes were closed shut, with only a sliver of sunlight penetrating through. Melancholy filled him. The air felt heavy and cruel, like something that did not want him. He twisted the cap off the last miniature bottle of whiskey from the bar and let it fall where it pleased. The alcohol burned his throat as it traveled down, but he needed courage. And courage would not show its face until intoxication overcame him. Signing his name at the end of the letter, he tore the page away from the spine and laid it on the edge of the desks surface, placing both wedding rings on top. The iron from the pistol felt cold as ice against his hands as he drew it from the drawer. Two bullets rested within its chambers, each one destined with a dreaded purpose.
The muffled voice started up again. Bounded legs restlessly scurried back on the mattress, the headboard knocking against the wall. Monica attempted desperately to undo the ties that restrained her hands behind her back. Every effort was futile. Tears flowed down her face, carrying clumps of black eyeliner with it. She pleaded to him in an abstruse, agonizing groan. But the man she knew (or thought she knew) no longer gave in to such sympathy. This was a man who’d made up his mind and had no intention in wavering from it.
“Remember,” he said, softly. “I asked you to stop. I cautioned you about seeing him again. Now look at you? Was it worth it?” He reached down and yanked her battered lover up by the hair. The tip of the barrel rested against the side of his head.
“Was this home wrecker worth it?”
She glanced down at him. Hours before, he had caressed her breasts and kissed her passionately in all the right places. Now, he struggled to balance himself, naked, bloody and bruised at the hands of her husband. Monica had only known him a few months, but the look she gave him seemed as if it were from a life-long devotion. Jake hadn’t seen that look for many years. But he knew what it implied, and it cut through him like a well sharpened sword. If there was even an ounce of hesitation left, it ceased to exist at that moment.
She muttered something to her lover, the gag distorting her words. It was a painful and intimate cry, something that only the both of them understood amid their looming demise. He mouthed something back, his words silent under his breath. He appeared to try to put her at ease, his face full of affection towards her. Jake seemed to disappear from their presence as they managed to embrace one another from a distance. Their connection turned Jakes bowels to liquid, everything he consisted of collapsed into a pile of desolation.
The shot went off.
A flash of light engulfed the room, his head jerked violently from the force of the blast. His eyes detached from her and shifted away into nothingness as he went limp and fell lifeless. Blood poured out from his shattered skull, the carpet under him drank it up with a fierce thirst.
Monica screeched loudly, that even with her mouth covered, the sound of her voice managed to echo through the room. She imploded into herself, sobbing hysterically, digging her fingernails into her back and drawing blood. It went on like that for some time. Jake watched her. He observed how a part of her perished. How all of a sudden she showed no interest whether she lived or died. When she was done, she met his eyes. Her expression became dead and weary.
“Kill me!” she said, muffling her words. “Please, just kill me. Kill me, please!”
Jake lifted the pistol slowly, aiming it at her. She receded back and closed her eyes.
“No,” he said. She opened her eyes to find the pistol resting under his chin.
“You live with it.” He pulled the trigger.