Better This Way

I sat on the front porch, the tears streaming down my face. In my hand, I held the gun. In the distance, I could hear the sirens coming. A neighbor must have called the police. I needed to think quickly, there wasn’t much time. I ran down into the cellar and fired the gun twice, once into some old newspapers, the second time in her collectible glass figurines.

I went back upstairs to her body, carefully touching the side of her head, letting the blood touch my fingers. I dripped some crimson on my shirt, making it appear it spattered from her. I ripped her left earring from her still, cold body and tossed it towards the closet. I could barely see through my tears.

“I love you,” I whispered to her. Outside, I heard the sirens end and brakes squeal. I placed her gently back onto our bedroom floor.


I walked to the cruiser, my hands behind my back. I held my head low, showing my guilt to everyone.

“What was the point of killing her?” a neighbor asked, screamed at me.

“She loved you,” another told me.

A third chimed in, “I bet she would have given you a divorce so you could be with that hussy.”

I knew how it looked; I was guilty of murder so I could run off with my much younger mistress. There was no 'other woman'. The children would hate me; probably never forgive me if they didn’t know the truth. I had to do it this way, my way. This was for the best.