When you have a gun, the only thing you have to trust is yourself
. The power to destroy is so much more vast than the power to create. Creation is a by product of existence; destruction is a product of power. It takes strength to destroy: physical strength; mental strength; emotional strength. Creation is what the weak do.
She sits at the end of the table with the lights on. The glass hangs casually in her hand, and the crimson liquid keeps itself to the bottom of the glass. The bottle beside her is nearly empty. Her eyes are baggy. Her shoulders are sagging, but her body is tense. Her dull hair guards her eyes, but I can see her hate.
I keep my jacket on and sit across the table from her. My pistol digs into my hip as I sit down, and it reminds me of my infallibility
. She's waiting for me to say something first. I feel the pressure against my hip. I wait for her to talk.
“I got a phone call today.” She breaks eye contact a second before she opens her lips. I can tell she already regrets talking. She wished she didn't do this.
“Yeah?” The less I talk around her, the more nervous she gets.
“A woman. Her name was Jessica. She told me you were supposed to meet her for dinner tonight.”
I lift my head slightly in response to a long pause.
“Who is Jessica?” She's trying to sound collected, but she's visibly shaken, and her voice is weak. She snaps. “Who the fuck is Jessica?” She's now shrieking. She stands up quickly and throws her glass and it smashes at the wall behind me. I feel the familiar, inviting sting against the back of my hand as she falls back over her chair.
I hear her starting to sob, but she doesn't even stand up. She doesn't even do anything. She probably regrets fighting with me. I get myself a glass, then sit back down and pour myself a drink. She had opened up my Merlot
. “I was saving this bottle for Jessica,” I say in the perfect icy
tone she had been trying to use on me earlier.
She sobs in response.
After finishing off my glass I stand up and push my chair in. I walk by her, still on her back sobbing, on my way out the room. She grabs my ankle and starts to say something. Her voice is disgusting. I kick her hands away and my foot collides with her face.
She sobs in response.
I walk into my bedroom and take off my jacket. I place my badge on the bed table. I unholster my gun. I spread my legs and stand in an aiming position. I bring the gun up and look through the sights, looking at nothing in particular. I glance around the room through my gun, living in the peace the gun gives me.
Suddenly the door opens, and I see her standing there. I squeeze the trigger and she falls to her knees.
She sobs in response. That's all she ever does.