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By the time I returned, it was too late. He had already passed away. I didn't even get to say goodbye to him.

My friends told me his last words were that of regret and sorrow. Honestly I can't blame. What I did was wrong and unforgivable. I just wish I could have had a chance to make up for what I did to him before he passed away.

Knowing that he died hating me was the worst part of his passing. I didn't even receive an invitation to his funeral. It was a low blow and it hurt.

Nowadays I seem to just sit at home and stare at pictures of us when we were together. They were such happy times and these days, it's hard to find happiness. These pictures are all I have of good memories.

All my friends do is pat me on the shoulder and say, "It's okay Alex. You'll get over it." But the truth is, Jack was the shining beacon in my life. If I was lost, he was there to find me. If I was hurting, he was there to comfort me. But then I hurt him, and he was no longer there.

I know what I did was wrong, but I did it in a mood of anger and desperation. The two of us had gotten into a fight and I was so angry, I just stormed out of the apartment. I went to a bar and got smashed. The next thing I knew I had a gun in my hand putting it at that woman we had been fighting about. I remember the tears streaming down her face a she screamed at me not to kill her, or, at least not in front of her child. But at that point, I was beyond reasoning, and my finger just found the trigger.

When I got home, Jack was there waiting for me. Tears were streaming down his face just like that woman's.

"Sheila's dead. Some bastard shot her and her kid." He said. Jack looked at me. "Did you have anything to do with this?" I remained quiet, my voice seeming to be incapable of working. "I said did you have anything to do with this!?" His voice boomed across our tiny apartment.

And like a tiny mouse, I nodded my head. Jack cursed. He began to storm around the apartment. After all, what was he supposed to do when he found out that I had killed his sister.

"Why?" He said quietly. I guess some part of him was still in disbelief.

I shrugged my shoulders. What was I supposed to say? I really don't know why I shot her. It was an impulse.

"I don't know." I mumbled. "I guess because it seemed that you loved her more than you loved me."

He looked at me with disgust. "Why would you think that? You're my wife! I love you more than anything. Why would you think that I loved my sister more than you?"

"Because you said that she was more important than me."

Jack looked away from and turned towards the window. "I said that she was more important at the moment. Sheila has cancer for Christ's sake."

"But does that make her more important than me? I should always be the more important one."

Jack remained silent. I couldn't take it anymore. I took the gun out from my jacket and pointed at him. Slowly I pulled my finger on the trigger and aimed it at his back..

"Say that you love me." I said.

"I'm sorry Alex, I'm afraid I can't love a monster like you anymore." Jack sighed. Slowly he turned towards me and looked at my gun. "Well Alex? Are you going to shoot me or just stand there?" I took a deep breath; my hand trembled.

Bang

That was the longest moment of my life. Jack just stood there, his eyes slightly glazed. He didn't even move. My eyes were widened in shock by the suddenness and impulsiveness of my own actions. Jack quirked his head slightly before he sputtered and blood speckled the ground and his shirt. Seeing that small trickle of blood falling from the corner of his mouth was so hard for me to watch, yet I just stood there, not moving a muscle, just watching him die.

Jack collapsed.

I put my hand down, the gun feeling unnaturally heavy now, and walked over to the phone. Slowly I dialed 911 and said that there had been an accident and some one had been shot. And then...I left.

Three weeks later, I wandered back into town, hoping I guess that everything was alright. I couldn't have been more wrong.

The first place I went was to my best friends house. She told me that some woman had broken into Jack's house and shot him. The police knew that the shooter was a woman from the recording of the 911 call. When the ambulance arrived, Jack was unconscious and in critical condition. The doctor gave him two weeks; he lived for two and a half. She told me that he regained consciousness for the last few days of his life. The police kept trying to question him and find the killer, but he kept his lips sealed and only cried silently. He wrote a lot though. He wrote his will and even the list of people who were to attend his funeral; my name of course was not included.

He never said a word until a few minuted before his death and those words were, "If she loved me, she wouldn't have pulled the trigger."

And so officer, I write this letter as a confession because I cannot bring myself to speak of the atrocities that I have committed.

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This was my very first murder story. Honestly I don't know what compelled me to write it. It kinda scares me actually.

Well, let me know whatcha think.


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