I shot him in the face before leaving his house, and running full speed down the street. I’m not sure if he screamed or made any sounds at all on the way down, the only thing in my head afterwards was the recurring sound of the gunshot. She stood there as it happened, wide eyed, scared, crying, broken.

It wasn’t supposed to be that way.

I threw the gun into a lawn somewhere between his house, my car, and a puddle of my puke. The sirens didn’t start immediately. In fact, she went into shock and didn’t call until morning. All I know was waking up to the pounding. Not the pounding of the door,though, that came later. The gunshot. It was there in my dreams, and there when I woke, like a not-so-steady drum beat over a monotonous song on a terrible record.

They’re outside now, their yells and pounds in tune with the beats of my mind. I sit facing the door, holding a plastic toy gun I found in my old things, awaiting their grand entry.

I won’t die happy.

But at least I won’t die a bitch.