the smoking gun

She sat, waiting, trying to put things together, to piece things together. Everything had happened so fast. He had come at her and she had pulled the gun from her purse. She’d packed it there for a reason. She knew he’d come at her, again. Hadn’t he always? But what was she to tell them, him, the detective, or whomever, when they would ask her, because they would. Was all this premeditated? Did she plan for it to happen this way, so she could kill him? Yes. Maybe. Perhaps. And he had it coming. She hadn’t been the only one, by him. But what now? What about her and her children? What about them? They would take them from her. At least for a bit. And they would be so frightened. And they would use them against her, to make her talk, to get her to say things. She knew how they did. She had friends. She watched TV. She felt her breathing grow shallow. She had to move, had to make a decision, had to … go. She would wake the kids, put them in the car and just drive. Go. Fast. Away. Leave him here. Be gone when the cops arrived, looking for her, or whomever made the call. The barrel of the gun was still warm. For some reason she found that odd. She placed it against her cheek. It felt good, comforting. She put it in her purse and headed for the kids’ bedrooms, to wake them, stepping over him, motherfucker.