The Writers' Avenue Issue 3: YOLO

No Guilt

Shafa Rashid

Her chipped, crimson nail traced rings around the rim of the nearly empty bottle of alcohol. She closed her eyes and leaned back into the car seat as another wave of nausea hit her. She ran her fingers over the bangles around her wrist. Something twisted in her stomach and she wrenched them off, ignoring the angry red marks they left on her skin.

Breathing hard, she tried to roll down the window quickly. It was stuck. She swore before pushing the door of the car open and flinging them out. Away from her. She rubbed her wrist, breathing more easily. Combing her fingers through her tangled hair, she looked up at the house in front of her. “Asleep.” She said in a hoarse whisper. “Are you?”

Her trembling fingers found the small handgun from the passenger seat and she got off, not bothering to close the car door. She stumbled through the dry leaves scattered across the lawn and reached the front porch. Easily reaching above the door, she retrieved a silver key which she pushed into the lock.

The cool autumn wind blew some leaves into the house as she took off her shoes and threw them onto the grass. Closing the door softly behind her, she breathed in the familiar smell of the house she had spent every afternoon of this last year. The legs gave way and she wretched, gun slipping out of her hand with a loud thump.

Her fingers fisted into her skirt as she gasped, trying to keep the memories away for just a little bit longer. Until it was over. There were reminders everywhere she looked, every time she moved. She grabbed the gun and let rage consume her body. She held the weapon more firmly in her grasp, making her way up the staircase in the dark, every step etched into her memory. When she reached the bedroom door she had came for, she stopped, expecting some kind of voice from inside her head telling her to stop, to think again. None came. So she turned the door knob and quietly stepped inside the room.

His brown hair fell over his eyes, moonlight caressing his face gently. Eyelashes rested on his cheeks, he looked peaceful.

She walked closer to the bed and thought maybe she looked this peaceful last night, just before he snatched away her peace. Her sanity. Her right to say no. Her right to her own body.

She slipped her fingers into his hair and tugged back his head. His eyes flew open as he gasped, pulling himself away. “A...Amy-” His eyes dropped to the black object in her hand. “What’s- what are you doing here?”

Amy laughed. “Wow. Feels a bit like de ja vu, doesn’t it, Nick?” She cocked her head to the side, looking into his light brown eyes. “Only it’s the other way round. Oh and I have a gun.” They both stared at it for a moment before Nick spoke carefully. “Amy look, sit down. Lets talk it out. I was drunk and-”

“You’re lying.” She spat, fury spilling into her words. “And even if you were, which you weren’t, its not a bloody excuse to rape.” She raised the gun, pointing at his chest. “Tell me, Nick. Is being drunk an excuse that’s good enough?”

His eyes widened in fear as she stepped onto the bed, standing over him, a foot on either side of his chest. He shook his head. “Amy listen to me-”

“No!” she yelled. “Shut up. Shut up! I trusted you!” Amy dropped to her knees, sitting on his stomach. “Why did you do it?” She asked quietly. “I want to know why, Nick. Answer me.”

She traced his cheek bone with the barrel of the gun, fighting the impulse to shove it into his face. She brought it lower and stopped at his left shoulder. “No answer, huh?” She pressed it into his flesh and pulled the trigger.

Nick’s painful cries followed the loud bang; Amy was sure half the town had heard. She placed a hand gently on his forehead, begging his silence. “It's okay.” Her fingers dipped themselves in the blood oozing out of his shoulder. “Isn't that what you said to me when I was screaming?”

“Amy-” Nick gasped through the pain. His quivering hand tried to cover the wound but she pushed it away. “Please. Please, help me...somebody,” He tried yelling. “Amy, I’m sorry.”

Amy leaned in, bringing her lips close to his ear. “I swore to myself,” she whispered. “That I wouldn’t kill you if I saw guilt in your eyes. I saw understanding. I saw fear. I saw helplessness.” She brought the gun to rest over his heart.

“Amy-”

“I saw no guilt.” She punctuated her last word by planting a bullet in his heart. She looked up and their eyes met for only a millisecond. She watched the life leave his eyes. But she knew a person didn’t always have to be physically dead for that to happen.

Her fingers were coated in his warm blood by the time she vaguely registered sirens and the door being kicked open downstairs. Heavy footsteps were followed by men in uniform bursting into the room, hands grabbing her and the gun being snatched away. They were saying something but she could only stare at the blood on her hands. She felt no guilt.