Blood on My Hands

Seeing her weep in the chair like that almost made me laugh. This is what she fucking deserves.
She thinks she can go bounce around to any guy she pleases while I’m not there? Then, on top of that, acting like everything’s fine and she’s the innocent girl I thought she was?
We’ll just see about that.
I stalked over to the chair, like a wolf on a midnight prowl, where she was bound and gagged, giving her a look of pure hatred. I ripped the tape off her mouth ferociously, making her sob harder. I threw the tape to the ground and grabbed her face roughly, smirking, pressing my lips to hers. She fought me off and I scowled at her. She then spat in my face.
“Bitch.” I growled, slapping her.
She doesn’t look like she can take much more, but the worst is yet to come.
I envisioned the shotgun in my back pocket, and how riveting it would be to put that single bullet through her head; to end her life and my misery.
Would it really end it, though? Would I still be able to live a normal life knowing that I killed someone, and out of pure greed and selfishness?
I looked into her eyes and she glared at me.
I could never forgive her for what she did, but could I really hold the responsibility for taking someone’s life, regardless of my hate?
I pulled out the gun, and a look of terror came over her face.
I pointed the barrel directly at her forehead, but didn’t pull the trigger.
“All the guilt, all the regret I’d feel if I pulled this trigger, is more painful than all of the hurt you caused me.” I said, and I look of hope came over her face.
I then pointed the barrel to my own temple, cocking the gun. “Lets see how you can handle it, you fucking whore.”
With that, the shot fired, shooting death into my skull, her scream being my final memory.

I screamed, watching his body drop to the floor. No one would hear me, though. We were out in the middle of nowhere; a cabin his parents used to come to every summer until his dad died of a heart attack a year ago.
I was still tied to the chair, unable to move, my hands going numb from the loss of blood circulation.
Tears were streaming down my face as I tried freeing myself. The rope burned against my wrists as I struggled.
After an unknown amount of time passed, I gave up, too tired and weak to try anymore. The stench of his blood seeping into the carpet was unbearable.
I tried forming words to apologize for my actions, but every time I’d want to say anything, I’d remember that it was too late, that he was already gone, and I’d fucked up one too many times, and this time I can’t have a redo.
Is this what it feels like to know you’ve basically killed someone? To have blood on your hands and splattered on your conscience for the rest of your life?
I collapsed in on myself, a complete wreck. How could I do this to myself, to him...
He’s right, I’m a fucking whore.
My mind became numb as I subconsciously fought to get free again. I heard the blood dripping to the ground as the rope painfully tore my wrists open. I felt lightheaded and dizzy, probably from the blood loss. I decided that I was either going to get out or die trying; the second option seemed to be the way it was going. Maybe it’s better that way; I can’t live with that memory, the memory of the light and life leaving his eyes, and all because of my selfish choices, I just can’t.