It's all been planned. No evidence to point towards me. I've taken all the necessary steps, accounted for all the details. My right hand, wrapped in a leather glove, is in the pocket of my trench coat, grasping a revolver. The left one pushes open the heavy iron gat. Walking up the steps to the front door, blood red images of rage flash through my head. They fill my insides with fire and knives until …showed first 75 words of 463 total…

…showed last 75 words of 463 total…followed by the fear. And...I just...stand there. Why, I ask myself. Why honor her petty life with a death of importance? Here I am, finally allowed to choose how the story ends. Why not be the better human being? So, I turn around, replace the revolver in my pocket, and walk away. I get in my car and start to drive. Where to? Who knows? Just not here. And not with her. End.