𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐲 𝐌𝐞

I shot him.

I shot the man who's tormented me from afar for the past six months.

His dark shadow drops onto the uncut grass I've refused to touch, knowing he was lurking amongst it.

My hands shake as I drop the weapon onto the hard wood floors, a loud crash ricocheting through my bedroom.

I should feel relieved, safe, at home, something, but all I feel is sorrow.

Is it shameful to say I'm going to miss my stalker?