#40 Bull’s-eye

by C. A. Weber

There were times when I saw what we once were in our pictures—the days I remembered how we used to be, what we should have been. But all of the things that endeared me to you I now found insufferable. Back then, I’ll admit it, I wanted you to keep me happy; to keep me purposeful. You were my likeable folly.

But now, to rid myself of my iniquities, I planned my escape. Out of all of my faults, this was its reckoning: the day I decided to rid myself of you.

I carried on dutifully as your wife, feeding you that poison every day, patiently awaiting your demise. I fed you until you could no longer feel reality, until you became easy. Permissible.

The hour of your death came in that stiff July heat. Me, lying in bed, with ears stinging to the rhythm of your heavy boots, wondering if your wanderings brought you to those old photos; images created during happier times.

Then, you collapsed.

I paused, expectant. Long had I imagined what would happen when you were gone, how happy I would be—how energetic!—that I barged into the living room, finding your body lying there, rigid. I could hardly believe how much my heart moved for you: that boyish smirk, your untidy black hair, those chalky gray eyes glinting in the firelight . . .

And your hand never held so steady to the gun.