Conclusions

Lounging lonesone and detached. Jimi takes a deep drag on his cigarette. Barefooted and bared soul to the wicked ways of his woman. Not to say he hadn't seen the signs but he had fabricated some sort of control in his mind. Or maybe his heart but who's to say. The fact of the matter was that she had wronged him one too many times and he was finished. He had contemplated all the madness she had imposed upon him for three long, dark days and had finally made his decision. The revolver already felt warm in his hand though it hadn't been fired in damn near a decade. He finally took his last sip of confidence, loaded up his gun, threw on a pair of old black dress shoes, and headed for the door, pausing only once, and briefly, to take a good look at himself in the mirror. He wanted to remember that image of himself while he did it.

In his car, parked in the alleyway behind her house, Jimi's thoughts are, oddly, on a summer long ago rather than on the task at hand. He reaches in his coat and pulls out the revolver. He even checks once more to see if it is loaded though he knows that it is. "No mistakes. Not this time.", he thinks to himself.

Once he is out of the car little time is wasted. He moves so smoothly it's almost as if he is gliding across the yard up to her backdoor. She had given him a key so getting in quietly would be a breeze. Through the kitchen, and living room. "Not a sound." he steadily repeats over and over again in his mind. His mind that she had warped and pushed to rationalizing this gruesome act.

At the top of the stairs he bends down to pat her cat on the head. He really had loved that cat. He really had loved her. About ten feet from her partially cracked bedroom door, he eases the revolver back out of his pocket, takes a few deep breaths, and once he's to the door he feels oddly blissful. A faint grin even shows on his face. He knows that he is finally going to have that control he thought he had all along.

Jimi slowly pushes open the door. Before clicking the light on he gazes over her sleeping body. This was it. This was the conclusion to the story he hadn't even written. In what seems like one quick motion, Jimi clicks on the light, puts the barrel to his head, and pulls the trigger