Pulling the Trigger

“You’re a menace,” I say. Sweat drips down my forehead. The gun is warm in my hands—I’m holding it tightly, afraid I’ll drop it if I loosen my grip.
She only sneers. She barely looks at the weapon I can barely hold.
My hands shake. “You hurt everyone. Mother, Father, Ella. You don’t even care.”
“And you think you’ll do a better job?” she laughs. “That it will be better when I’m gone?”
I don’t. “I can try.”
“You can’t kill me,” she smiles. “You don’t have the strength.”
“Watch me,” I whisper.
I pull the trigger.
The mirror shatters.