The first shot missed him, lodging into the wall behind them. The room fell into a stunned silence for a split second before chaos erupted. I steadied my hand, my vision narrowing on John's shocked face, and fired again. This time, the bullet found its mark, hitting him in the chest. John crumpled to the floor, clutching the wound, blood seeping through his fingers.
As the gunshot echoed through the room, my mind was a storm of emotions. Betrayal, anger, sorrow, and disbelief crashed over me in waves. How could he do this to me? How could John, the man I loved, betray me in such a despicable way? And Normani... my cousin, my second sister, someone I grew up with since we were babies, how could she be part of this betrayal?
Normani's face, once so familiar and comforting, was now twisted in terror. She screamed, tears streaming down her face as she watched John writhe on the floor. I pointed the gun at her, my hands shaking. Her eyes widened, and she started to beg for her life.
"Please, don't! I'm so sorry! Please!" she pleaded, her voice breaking with fear and desperation.
Memories of our childhood flashed before my eyes—playing together in our grandparents' backyard, sleepovers filled with laughter, secrets shared in the dark. Despite the betrayal, I still loved her. The bond we shared was too deep to sever, even now. I could see the same memories flickering in her tear-filled eyes, the same regret.
I felt the weight of the gun in my hand, the cold metal pressing into my skin. My arm trembled, and the gun slowly fell lifeless to my side. I couldn't do it. I couldn't kill her.
Tears blurred my vision, and I quickly wiped them away. "Get out," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "Get out, Normani. Now."
Normani scrambled to gather her things, her movements frantic and desperate. She didn't look back as she rushed past me and fled down the stairs. The front door slammed shut behind her, leaving me alone in the silence.
I stood there, my mind numb, my body shaking. The reality of what had just happened crashed over me. I had shot John. I had almost killed my cousin. I felt defeated, the adrenaline draining away, leaving only an empty, hollow ache.
I sank to the floor, the gun slipping from my hand. The room spun around me, and I struggled to breathe, the weight of my actions pressing down on me. What had I become? The tears came again, uncontrollable and relentless, as I sat there, alone in the wreckage of my life.
I was brought out of my thoughts by John's weak, desperate voice. He lay on his back, barely able to whisper, "Please, call 911." The plea was filled with pain and fear, and it cut through the fog of my mind.
I crawled over to him,
my movements slow and mechanical. Sitting on his lap, I pulled his upper body up by the bloody straps of his wife-beater, bringing his face close to mine. Our eyes met, and I held him there, staring at him emotionlessly as he struggled for each breath.
My mind drifted back to the day we first met, how it felt like love at first sight. I remembered our first date, our first kiss, the times we laughed until we cried. Those memories seemed so distant now, overshadowed by the betrayal and the violence of this moment.
The sound of John taking his last breath snapped me back to the present. His body went limp in my arms. Realization hit me like a freight train—I had made a terrible mistake. It was too late. John was dead. Panic and regret surged through me, and I pleaded with his lifeless body, "Wake up, John. I'm so sorry. I'll take you to the hospital. Please, wake up."
I struggled to lift his body, my strength failing me. Desperation set in as I tried to drag him towards the bedroom door, but it was futile. I hadn't moved him an inch. Exhausted and defeated, I collapsed beside him, rubbing his face as tears streamed down my cheeks. I cried until I slipped into a restless slumber.
