The Romantic Revolver

I awoke that morning when the dew still stood on the flowers.
The gardens near the house were moist and slick and quiet.
Everyone still sleeping, but I knew what I had to do, before they all came out.
I peek quietly out of the guest bedroom where I'd stayed for the past month.

I tiptoe noiselessly down the wooden stairs, much to my pleasure they neither creak nor clack.
I see the glass doors to the back gardens are open, a fine mist slinking in with the morning air.
The gardener is watering- this is going to be problematic. I walk, still silently, to the open door and see him kneeling down with his hands in a big green potted plant.
'Do you think you could have those new flowers she bought yesterday planted right now? I'd like them to be there when she wakes up.'

He leaves quickly and goes to the very front of the house, where the bright yellow and orange flowers wait.
I look around quickly- no one. My eyes instinctively beam over to the small mound nearest to the house.
It was still there, buried. She'd not found it.

I run my hands quickly through the fertile, angel food cake-like soil until I feel the cold steel against my fingers. The very ornate and romantic revolver still lay gloriously underneath! I bring it up, through the dirt, it glistens in the early morning light.

She never dreamt that I still had this most unique heirloom, or that I'd christened it in such a way! I had to do it. The monster had to die. It had to die before it killed her...and it would have. She'd have fallen to her death, eventually. Despite my own fears of the creatures, i only wanted her safe.

Quite ironic for someone like me, who fears the four-legged, hooved animals for an irrational and ambiguous reason, to be living with equestrians. But it had to die. It would have killed both of us. But, still, better that she think someone else did it. It was quite more romantic that way.