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Description
   It's just another day. Nothing special. Nothing at all. Or at least that's what I whisper to myself. I've been raped today . . . by my late boyfriend, Christopher. Late as in dead. I killed him today; I couldn't take it anymore. Not after today. The images still run so clearly in my mind. In that dark alleyway, lying in his dingy Impala with the doors wide open as he holds me down on the backseat, as his kisses on my neck turn into harsh, angry bites. He's drunk again; he thinks I'm a piece of meat.

   "You are my bitch," he says to me in between quick gasps. "If I see you with any other man, I'll shoot you."

  I can't breathe. I'm only trying to breathe with his fucking hand clutched over my mouth and nose. He doesn't want me to scream like I did the last time he came for me. He says he'll kill me if I leave him, he'll kill me if I scream, and he'll kill me when I can't please him anymore. But he makes me want to kill myself.

   He is too drunk this time. Hasn't brought his shoulder holster. He doesn't even retrieve his Colt Magnum from the floor when it falls out of his pants. I turn my head after a clattering of beer cans announces its descent. The gun is just in my reach.

   He slaps me. "Look at me, you whore!" he screams. He forces me back into his glare. His eyes are glazed over; I doubt he can even truly focus on my face right now. But I doubt that he’s ever cared about my face. Funny though, the more I look at his face, the more I wish I hadn’t been so “fucking hot,” or so naive. But I’m not naive anymore.

   My hand stretches out and down, towards the gun. I feel his body stiffen as if some internal part of him has discovered my movement. He then lets out a low, guttural moan and collapses over my body. I cringe when I feel him empty out into me, and my rage intensifies. My hand dives for the gun, rattling through the empty cans. I grasp the butt, my newfound lifeline, and pull it out of the clutter. It’s freshly oiled, shiny in the dim overhead light of the car. Its weight and foreshadow of violence makes me tremble. Even in my fear, my shaky hand instinctively clasps the gun; my finger moves over the trigger. The barrel hovers in front of Chris’s flannel shirt, facing his left shoulder.

   Chris turns his head slightly, slowly catching his breath. His eyes pull away from the open door, down to my face. The look in his eyes denotes disappointment.

   “I don’t know why I bother with you anymore,” he whispers with a thick slur. “Rosalyn fucks better anyway.”

   Anger washes over me. “Fuck you!” There is no moment between me pulling the trigger and Chris being shot. Only a loud crack, and then his shoulder exploding in my face. Blood and tissue splatter all over me. All in less than a second.

  Chris screams and jerks away from me. He tumbles out of the car, onto the cold asphalt. “You fucking bitch!” he cries. His right hand is covered in blood, desperately covering the large gape in his shirt.

   “You deserve it,” I reply when I finally have the strength to get out of the car. I’m still holding the gun firmly, and nothing at this point will allow me to let it go. “You deserve it for all the shit you gave me.”

   Chris looks up at me, and for the first time, I see that he’s afraid of me.

Description
   It's just another day. Nothing special. Nothing at all. Or at least that's what I whisper to myself. I've been raped today . . . by my late boyfriend, Christopher. Late as in dead. I killed him today; I couldn't take it anymore. Not after today. The images still run so clearly in my mind. In that dark alleyway, lying in his dingy Impala with the doors wide open as he holds me down on the backseat, as his kisses on my neck turn into harsh, angry bites. He's drunk again; he thinks I'm a piece of meat.

   "You are my bitch," he says to me in between quick gasps. "If I see you with any other man, I'll shoot you."

  I can't breathe. I'm only trying to breathe with his fucking hand clutched over my mouth and nose. He doesn't want me to scream like I did the last time he came for me. He says he'll kill me if I leave him, he'll kill me if I scream, and he'll kill me when I can't please him anymore. But he makes me want to kill myself.

   He is too drunk this time. Hasn't brought his shoulder holster. He doesn't even retrieve his Colt Magnum from the floor when it falls out of his pants. I turn my head after a clattering of beer cans announces its descent. The gun is just in my reach.

   He slaps me. "Look at me, you whore!" he screams. He forces me back into his glare. His eyes are glazed over; I doubt he can even truly focus on my face right now. But I doubt that he’s ever cared about my face. Funny though, the more I look at his face, the more I wish I hadn’t been so “fucking hot,” or so naive. But I’m not naive anymore.

   My hand stretches out and down, towards the gun. I feel his body stiffen as if some internal part of him has discovered my movement. He then lets out a low, guttural moan and collapses over my body. I cringe when I feel him empty out into me, and my rage intensifies. My hand dives for the gun, rattling through the empty cans. I grasp the butt, my newfound lifeline, and pull it out of the clutter. It’s freshly oiled, shiny in the dim overhead light of the car. Its weight and foreshadow of violence makes me tremble. Even in my fear, my shaky hand instinctively clasps the gun; my finger moves over the trigger. The barrel hovers in front of Chris’s flannel shirt, facing his left shoulder.

   Chris turns his head slightly, slowly catching his breath. His eyes pull away from the open door, down to my face. The look in his eyes denotes disappointment.

   “I don’t know why I bother with you anymore,” he whispers with a thick slur. “Rosalyn fucks better anyway.”

   Anger washes over me. “Fuck you!” There is no moment between me pulling the trigger and Chris being shot. Only a loud crack, and then his shoulder exploding in my face. Blood and tissue splatter all over me. All in less than a second.

  Chris screams and jerks away from me. He tumbles out of the car, onto the cold asphalt. “You fucking bitch!” he cries. His right hand is covered in blood, desperately covering the large gape in his shirt.

   “You deserve it,” I reply when I finally have the strength to get out of the car. I’m still holding the gun firmly, and nothing at this point will allow me to let it go. “You deserve it for all the shit you gave me.”

   Chris looks up at me, and for the first time, I see that he’s afraid of me.