Three bullets finished him off. Three. The magic number.

1. One in his leg. One bullet for pain and inconvenience, and for every punch that landed in the soft flesh of my darling baby girl.
2. One in his back. One bullet for his seething, back-stabbing betrayal, and for every time he went to her place instead of to the gym.
3. One in his face. One bullet to mar that beauty and dignity he so subtly stole from me.

But the one bullet I could not fire might have landed in his heart. My finger faltered, for that is the one part of me his love left intact. I spared him that last bullet, so that as he lay on the pavement, quivering and bleeding, he could still feel the thump of his heart’s last futile beats. So that he could realize that even as he died at my hand, he still loved me. So that he could feel the hate and disgust spread through his veins…at just the thought of loving me.

Three bullets, and the one still in my pistol finished him off. The magic number.