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Before I Pulled The Trigger

Short story By: CursedHeart
Mystery and crime


The confession of a woman who shot her husband and his lover. Decided for yourself where the true guilt lies.


Submitted:Nov 29, 2008    Reads: 117    Comments: 5    Likes: 3   


It is torture; watching someone you love, someone you trust, make love to another. There is no greater pain.

You think I mean sex, of course. That desirable, unforgivable obsession of today's society. And it would seem likely, considering the deed I have commited. But for a moment, forget my own personal affliction and instead look out into that world. There are so many affairs. So many painful heartbreaks over someone's love for something, anything else. The man who works hours and hours; that devotes the entirety of his life to a career, is just as guilty as the one that lies to bed with another woman. Any man that partakes in something that only directs his desired attention away from those who desire it,is deserving of that judgement. And did I not deserve to administer that judgement? Did I not, after watching him, losing him, deserve some sort of restitution?

I did find him with another women: a spunky blonde with large breasts, spiked heels, and a discraceful amount of makeup. You ask me if I knew her. Yes, I knew her. She was his "assistant." Or so he said. And it was only by chance that I walked in on them, in my home, on my couch, on which i had sat many nights, waiting for him to return home. Her long, flawless legs were wrapped around his waist, as he...but you don't need the details. You just want to condemn me; recieve my confession and walk away, as those stuck up, hypocritical bastards in uniform pin my arms behind my back and lead me to a prison cell. You misjudge me. I have been living in a prison cell for over a year. I lived, and breathed, in the confines of what I wanted to believe was real. I locked myself there; to hide away from the outside, from what I knew to be real. Reality is such a harsh place to live.

You just need someone to blame. Well, blame him! Blame them! They did this. They did this to me!! But no. No one cares what they did to me. No one cares what crimes they commited apon my mind, apon my heart. All that matters, is what crimes were committed against their filthy, rotten bodies. You want a confession? Fine, take it. I willfully give it to you. Take it! I am not ashamed of what I have done. It does not weigh apon my conscience, as his disloyalty had.

Do you even know what it's like? To be touched by someone, and feel nothing but obligation. No passion, no love. Just a job to be done. Do you know what it is like to be lied to, everytime you are told that you are loved? I do. It is a frightfully cold pain that wreaks its terror upon the deepest, weakest parts of your soul. It breaks you down until you have nothing left; not your emotion, not your conscience, not even your deeply engrained faith. It grinds away at you until you are only left with lifeless memories, and revengeful thoughts.

But, you don't know' what that's like. You have no heart, no sympathy for those of us who live as I have lived. You have not found love, or maybe you have, but it has not been greivously taken advantage of and thrown aside as if was simply last night's leftover take-out.

That night, I retured home. I could hear them, as i walked through the door. I had known. Yes, deep down I had known about her. You are suprised? Did you think me stupid? Ignorant maybe? I believe he thought the same. I had to chuckle. The nerve! Thinking he could get away with such a sin, in my own home. As if mocking me. If I had not done it, if I had simply walked out and returned only after i was sure she had left; had i sat on that couch and listened to him tell of his day; he would have been laughing at me. His eyes would have sparkled with knowledge. I could not bear that. I would not let him have that satisfaction.

I calmly walked to the drawer, in which he kept his gun. That gun, the beautiful weapon that brought me such relief. They say a gun takes lives, but I disagree. It returned to me my life, which I had lost to him so many years ago, when he began his affairs. I'm indebted to that small, skillfully-crafted metal. The bullets, even finer, lay in my palm as I calmly walked to the living room. I stood in the doorway and marveled at his concentration. Never had I seen him so consumed with one thing. How jealous it made me. There was a time when I believed him to have that kind of obsession with me, but watching them there, I knew he had never seen me the way he saw her. Such admiration, and lust. Powerful drives.

I loaded the gun, giving nourishment to my new friend. My hands did not shake. Never once did I second guess my descision. There are just some things that arise out of nessessity. You will call me crazy for feeling this way, but I am more sane then any of you. I am one of the few that refuse to live with unhappiness, and I certainly do not run away from it. No, I end it.

And so I did that night. He heard me cock the gun. You should have seen how quickly he looked up. The emotion that flew across his face was incredible. First, suprise. Then, confusion. Finally, an unspeakable fear. For once, he could not say a word. He knew I would not lower the gun. He knew, in those split seconds, that it was the end. I should give him that credit. He was a very intellegent man. I shot her first, so I would not have to hear her disgusting screams. Two seconds later, he was also dead, lying on top of her. A fitting ending, don't you think? To be judged in the midst of the crime? Besides, I thought it a very interesting crime scene for your detectives.

And so you have it. My confession. I doubt anyone will know the truth. That useless manuscript upon which you are writing my every word will be hidden away in a filing cabinet, under "wives who murder their husbands." You will take from it, quotes that will strengthen your case against me, and you will win. I will not plead insanity or mental illness, for I am afflicted with niether. I am guilty under your definition. I murdered my husband and his lover. No one will ever know how he silently murdered me and my unconditional love for him. No one will ever know about those sleepless nights, worrying, wondering. They won't know about the tears, and the war that raged inside me, against me. They will only know of my crime.

But you know. You know the truth. And may it wiegh on you for your enire life. It is my deepest hope that you forever remember the crimes commited before I pulled the trigger.





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