[Untitled] [a.k.a. something I wrote around 3 am]

Laying in the bed of filth I had made for myself, I realize that everything took a wrong turn all within minutes. My gentleman visitor lay dead on the floor to my right, my boyfriend propped up against the wall with his bullet riddled body still gasping for air, and the gun still held tightly in my hand. I had never intended for things to ever get this bad. Never. I should have known that it would end this way. I was never meant to be happy or keep happiness, no, not with the way I blindly and ignorantly go through things.

Only a few minutes my visitor and I were in a modified 69 position, enjoying each other when my boyfriend came home from work early. The door slammed and I heard his footsteps fall on the hardwood floor of the kitchen, heading our way. He was whistling a song from some obscure musical no one had seen outside of an off-Broadway theater and drawing closer and closer to the bedroom. My gentleman visitor quickly moved away from me and started to gather his clothes frantically while I slipped my boxers and jeans on as fast as I could.

“Honey, I’m home!” was the last thing I even heard in those last few moments.

I stared dumbfounded as my gentleman was still getting himself dressed when my boyfriend came into the bedroom, eyes wide as dinner plates just staring at us at first in surprise and then in pure anger. I recognized the look in his eyes then, the look of “You’re a filthy fucking slut” permeating through. I wanted to say something, but I knew that nothing would come of trying to talk.

That’s when he started fumbling in the dresser next to him, mumbling to himself about who knows what. My gentleman stood in his place, unsure of what step to take next. I knew what step to take next. I knew exactly what he was rifling through the dresser for and I had to hurry up and beat him to the punch.

I hopped over to my side of the bed and started going through the dresser, searching for my gun so that maybe I could try and stop things from escalating. Sadly he found his gun before I did. The first few shots reverberated through my ears as my gentleman was felled to the ground with a loud, sickening thud. I quickly moved into place and raised my gun into place, aiming between his eyes. We didn’t say anything in those few moments. There was never a need to.

He began to pull the trigger, so I winged him. He gripped the arm I had shot him, letting his guard down as he slumped backwards into the wall, looking at me bewildered. That’s when I fired again, then again, and then again. Then one more shot. I couldn’t believe it at first, but I quickly had to see what I had done. I’d fucked up and killed my boyfriend who had killed my gentleman visitor, a man who simply wanted to have a little fun on the side of his marriage.

Thus laying in the bed of filth I had made for myself, I realized just how wrong everything had turned in those few minutes. The police would be coming before too long and I knew that I would be thrown into jail. I’d be a murderer and I know then that—

“—Fucker…”

I turn around and spy that my boyfriend is not quite dead yet. Before I can think of anything he’s already fired off a few shots and blood trickles down from the wounds and onto my bed. In those last few waking moments I slump over, groaning and grunting in pain as I look on at him, his last breath now drawn. I cry to myself, wondering why I had to be such a screw up, but really, it doesn’t matter. It really…just…doesn’t…matter. It’s…all…over…

Sucks.

I really should be more coherent when I want to write.

I call BS, that never happened.