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They Were Shot.

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She was shot.
He killed her for 10 bucks and a pack of gum. The love of my life: gone.
He was shot.
I killed him. The murderer sent to the depths of Hell for what he’d done.

Where am I now, you ask? Prison, to put it simply. I confessed to the deed, and never denied that I killed the cruel beast. I told my story to the press- those money seeking vultures. My tragic love story covered the front pages of newspapers and magazines alike. Discussions broke out on talk shows debating whether my actions were justified. Hopeless romantics across the nation cried out to lessen my life sentence; others protested to raise it.
I do not care where I am put. I feel empty and dormant, like all signs of life have left my body. I am in a state of non-being without her.
Doctors have tried to proclaim me insane, but I was crazy in love, as cliché as that sounds.
I was taking her out for a night on the town. She was always complaining that I didn’t take her out much. All I ever wanted was to make her happy. She was gorgeous that night: she wore a purple gown that flowed down to her ankles. The silver lining actually highlighted her brown eyes for reasons I still cannot understand. Her hair was up in an elegant bun, and she wore those dangly earrings that I gave her for her birthday. Her smile was never bigger as we strolled down the city streets in the swirling white snow of New York in December.
I took her to the theatre and to dinner afterwards at a restaurant nobody alive could afford. I didn’t care, as long as I got to spend my time and money on the best woman in the world. I felt splendid, and I like to think she felt the same. After three and half hours of bliss, her life was drained from her body.
I had parked the car down a shifty looking alley; it was the only available space. Of course, we thought that only bad things happened to people in movies, what were the odds that something terrible could happen to us? Oh, the irony.
He wanted her purse. That was it. She didn’t resist, but out of nerves, he shot her anyways.
I held her in my arms while she breathed her last breath. She asked me how bad it was; I knew to never lie to a dying person.
“Bad,” I said. She smiled weakly at me, while I allowed myself to cry. I didn’t care about my “manly” reputation at that moment.
Her last words to me were “I love you.” The one thing I would have given anything for at that moment would have been the ability to kiss it all better. I was a man blinded by revenge. I got up, picked up the dropped weapon, and sprinted off in the direction the man ran away in. I found him sitting behind a dumpster; he too was crying.
Without hesitation, I shot him. I just recently learned that he was poor and desperate for money. I also discovered that the man was actually a boy, only 15 years old. No, I do not feel remorse. I’m not trying to justify my actions using the concept of love.
Do I think I deserve to be in jail? I honestly don’t care enough about life to consider it.



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