A walk through the neighborhood revealed neat, modest houses with tidy, well-kept lawns. Well, one house was neat enough, but not quite so neat as its neighbor's.
Just a few missing touches - no flowers, tall grass in spots that were hard to get at with the lawn mower and a few weeds. Who would think this mostly tidy house would shortly be the scene of domestic violence?
A closer look inside the house showed it was not so tidy. Magazines, newspapers, empty beer cans and clutter throughout. Dirty clothes in piles in the corners of the two bedrooms and dirty dishes stacked on both sides of the sink. And voices raised in anger.
They were arguing. They were always arguing. Johnny waved the small caliber derringer drunkenly in her direction.
"I think I'll shoot you."
She was tired of his accusations. Tired of him. "Go ahead and shoot, you son-of-a-bitch."
Frankie heard a loud noise, looked down and saw the bright red blood blossoming out from her belly.
Johnny said, "Oh, my God! What have I done?" He got slowly out of his chair and moved toward her.
Thinking quickly, Frankie eased down to the floor before the pain started, closed her eyes, and said, "Put the gun on safety."
Johnny had a blank look on his face as he bent over her.
Frankie repeated her words, "Put the gun on safety."
Johnny thumbed on the safety and knelt beside her on the floor, numb and in shock.
She looked into his eyes. "Put the gun in my hand. Tell them it was an accident. Tell them I did it." She whispered, "You're the only man I've ever loved."
He placed the gun carefully in her right hand.
Frankie waited until he closed his eyes. She curled her finger around the trigger and flipped the safety off with her thumb.
"If I die, I'm taking you with me," she said as she placed the gun over his heart and pulled the trigger.
Johnny's eyes flashed open as his body jerked backward. His heart stopped beating before he hit the floor.
She gathered the strength to crawl next to his still warm body and placed the gun back in his hand. His clothes were stained in several places. With blood and bodily fluids.
Fighting off nausea and the bile that rose in her throat, she thought, "I've got to get my story straight. We struggled for the gun. He shot me, then killed himself."
Feeling faint, she used her hands to crawl the few inches toward the phone and thought, "Now, if I can just dial nine-one-one."
The End
Copyright © 1994 Lida E. Quillen. This story was published in the June 1994 issue of Over My Dead Body! All rights reserved. Do not copy without permission from the author.
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