The Process

I faced him, while he was in my bed. He was not alone. The pistol was freezer-burning my hand, and my index finger was tired of being extended. It wanted to pull in. It wanted to pull that trigger back. And my body wanted to feel the reverberations of the pounding shockwaves through the air. It wanted to feel the power of retribution and of death. The power it knew it was causing. More simply, I wanted to kill. Kill him.

Then I could face her, and repeat the process.

Then I could face myself, and repeat the process.