Explanations

She sat next to him, legs folded under her, in the dimly lit hallway. Her shoulders rested against the scarred and pitted wall. The faint yellow light turned her already pale skin a sickly sallow. Her hands rested lightly in her lap, reluctant to touch the worn, disgusting, carpet. Her hair hung limply about her shoulders. The shorter strands at her temples clung to the perspiration on her face. The makeup that she had so meticulously applied that morning to cover the bruises was gone. Mascara had formed black rings around her eyes, tears having created rivulets of the same shade trailing to her jaw. She wasn’t crying now.

“I had to do it you know,” She looked at him. “It was the only way to make it stop.” She looked ahead again, starring at the opposite wall.

“I could have lived with the fear,” She continued. “But the shame, and the anger,” She paused. “I couldn’t live with the anger.” She finished vehemently. She looked back at him.

“The lady at the station recommended that I think about getting professional help.” She smiled bitterly. “They also said you would probably get nothing more than a slap on the wrist. All they had was circumstantial evidence. My word against yours.” She shook her head in incredulousness. “It’s been less than a week and they are already talking about locking me up and letting you go.” She slowly ran her hand over the fingerprint shaped bruised on her throat and collarbone. She knew without looking that there were more of the same on her hips and thighs. She could still feel his fingers pressing cruelly into her tender flesh.

“Do you know what their explanation is?” She leaned forward looking into his eyes. “They said there are witnesses that saw us at a party earlier that night. They said it was obvious that we were--how did they put it?” She stopped. “Oh, we were, ‘into each other.’” She smiled slightly. “They think maybe I led you on, that I pushed you too far. They think things got a little hot and heavy, and maybe even a bit rough, and I got scared.” She let out a strangled laugh. “It doesn’t matter now though does it?” She leaned against the wall. She could hear sirens below on the street now. She looked back at him. He slumped motionless against the wall. He stared, unfocused at the opposite wall. His eyes were cold, flat, lifeless. His hair fell loosely over his forehead except for just above his ear where the blood had congealed and matted it to his head. That was where the first bullet had gone. There was another wound along his throat, and a couple in his chest. His clothing was stained, and wrinkled. There were still more bullets imbedded in the wall. Her hand had shaken when she pulled the trigger.

“I hope you’re in hell.” She said. She could hear footsteps pounding up the stairs. “I’ll know soon enough.” She closed her eyes and sighed deeply.

“Lady, put your hands up!” A uniformed officer burst through the staircase door, gun drawn. She opened her eyes and looked at the young police officer. Her eyes shone brightly, unnaturally. She pushed herself up from the floor. She picked up the pistol from where it had grown cold beside her.

“Put the gun down!” The officer yelled. She could see the nervousness in the young police man and felt a pang of guilt.

“I had to make it stop.” She tried to explain. Silent tears had started rolling down her checks again. She raised her arm and leveled the pistol. She heard a shot ring out from the officer’s gun, quickly followed by another. Her pistol fell uselessly to the ground. It was still cold. And empty.