New Thought.

Let's start with the truth. Yes, it was I who killed my wife.

Face it, we were too young anyway, what was the point? Getting married at fifteen wasn't that uncommon, but having a child at seventeen? That was a disgrace. So, I did what any normal seventeen year old would do in my situation. I went out back to the small shed that harbored her favorite digging tools. Our families were well off and bought us a house with a yard, she loved that. I moved aside her annoying tools and managed to grab the old riffle in the back. I think she put it back here on purpose. She never liked the thought that of me with a gun. My 'temper tantrums' as she calls them, rose to the point of threatening, but I would never intentionally hurt her. Or, that's what I thought. I gripped the riffle in my hand without a second thought and I crept in the back of the house quietly. Well, actually I didn't make it a big deal to be quiet, I was slamming the door behind me and the sound of my shoes smacking the concrete should have tipped her off. Maybe she would have turned if I had said something. Maybe I should have pleaded with her to act like a normal wife and do what I said instead of pulling the independent crap. I pulled the two bullets from my pants pocket. I had always kept them in my dresser drawer, but now they were somehow in my pocket. I loaded the gun as I approached her and paused, she was still talking about how her mother bought the most adorable maternity blouse for when she 'showed'. No, I thought, shaking my head slightly, no one else will ever know your mistake. Yes, it was her mistake, after all she was the one who got pregnant. We slept together so many times, she had to have made a mistake this time. Maybe it was because we were rushed, we hadn't even glanced at her schedule for the month- No. This was her fault. I had to convince myself of that as I glanced down the barrel of the gun into the black mouth, the darkness consuming me and my need to change my life. Start over.

Looking back now, I realized there were other options. My psychiatrist informs me of that every time I visit her. How the fuck would she know? Had she been pregnant at a young age and managed to keep the child and her husband together? Come to think of it, I haven't even seen a ring on her finger. Maybe he simply left her when she got pregnant. I couldn't have left my wife. She would have killed herself without a doubt. I couldn't let her kill herself and her own baby. I had to help her. I had to do it for her.

So there I was, pointing the gun at the back of some woman as she blabbered on about my wonderful mother in law. She wasn't that wonderful, let me tell you, she threatened to kill me when she found out her 'darling daughter' was, as she put it, 'violated in the most obscene way possible'. We were married for Christ's sake. Some people go through there whole life in denial. Did she think that I would not sleep with my wife until we were married for a year? What couple actually followed that tradition anyway? But besides, she didn't get pregnant until we were seventeen, so I was in the clear. That was two years after the ceremony. That meant the evil mother wasn't going to kill me, but I was still going to kill her daughter. My wife was standing there. Yes, I still call her my wife. We weren't divorced when I killed her and we didn't have a bad relationship either. We simply had to solve her problem. She was only two and a half months into the pregnancy and we had only told our parents. Better act fast before she told the world, or showed them for that matter. I sighed quietly to myself, watching her shoulders bunch up and down as she held the garment in front of her. She looked happy at the moment, but I knew she had to be hurting inside. She had to want this. I had to give it to her.

Yes, I understand now that I was disturbed. No, don't worry, my therapist tells me I'm on the 'right path to mental health'. Yeah, he actually said that to my face. I don't mind much. I'm going to be here for a while, so I might as well get a kick out of it.

I was about to open my mouth to tell her to turn around so that I had a clear shot of her stomach and the baby, but in that instant I realized that she might get scared. I nodded to assure myself that I was doing the right thing. I put my slightly trembling finger to the trigger and aimed the gun directly for her lower back at her spine. I paused, realized I was trembling and wondered if I should get someone else to do it. I didn't think about the consequences. I just knew this had to be done and it had to get done now. I steadied myself with thoughts. We loved each other. I still love her. That's why I wanted to do this for her.

Yes, doctor, I say. No, doctor, I say. I don't bother telling them what they want to hear. Did I love my wife? Of course, she was my wife. Did I want to hurt her? No, I wanted to kill her. Did I want to kill the baby? No, I wanted to kill my wife and the baby. I sigh and turn to look out the window. They always eye my strangely when I do this. Maybe they think I'm realizing that I was wrong. Well, they were wrong. I did what I did because I had to do it for her. They don't understand. She would never give up the baby. She would take everyone's insults and shrug them off, but deep inside she would be tearing apart. I needed to help her. I needed to kill her.

I slowly began to squeeze the trigger. I felt a slight pang of fear wash over me. What if I did this wrong? I had planned to shoot her twice. Once in the back to insure the child was dead. Then I would walk around her as she's on the floor and shoot her in the head to insure her a painless death. I almost smirked aloud at the thought of a painless death by a gun. I relaxed my trigger finger, wondering what I would do if she fell on the floor on her stomach. Would I turn her over? Touch her? No, I told myself, don't touch her. Fingerprints. Wait a minute, fingerprints? Did I think about getting caught? What about the gun? Should I hide it? Call this an act of passion? I almost put the gun down and asked her what she thought. I cursed myself mentally, knowing how good she is at these types of situations. She read a lot of books and probably one like this. She was slowly packing up the garment as I argued with myself silently. My finger was off the trigger and I was not paying attention as she turned around.

I was so wrapped up in thinking about the details, that I didn't even notice I was loosing my chance to get the job done. I should have just shot her. I didn't want to see the pain in her eyes, I just wanted to get it done.

She dropped the bag her wonderful mother had purchased for her and her eyes went wide, both hands coming to her mouth to stop the scream. She muffled something, but I couldn't understand. I snapped from my trance, the gun pointed at her stomach and my eyes locked with hers. I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. I kept the gun pointed and my finger off the trigger. I kept my damn finger off the trigger. What was I thinking? I could make the gun work mentally? Gun, now. Please shoot her for me. I think she knew what was going on by the vacant look in my eyes. Her features softened and she took a step towards me, I raised the gun to her chest now, staring her coldly in the eyes. I didn't want her to touch me. Her warm and calm touch would change my mind and she would have to live with the pain this child would cause her. She stumbled a bit as she froze. She faltered, more like it. She raised a brow, bringing both hands to her stomach and resting them there in protection of her unborn child.

She was always a good sport. She reminded me of what I was doing even though it would end her life. She pointed out to me in a subtle way that I was here to rid her of the child. She wasn't as innocent as people thought. She was reminding me why I was going to shoot her. She rested her hands on her stomach, and with a soft smile, encouraged me.

I nodded and raised the gun again to her stomach. She lowered her hands instinctively, realizing what she had just done. She began to shake her head and reached forward quickly. She let out a desperate cry as I attempted to move forward to stop her and the barrel of the gun forcefully came in contact with her stomach. She backed away slightly, bending and holding her wounded stomach. She sobbed to the floor, muttering something about the baby. I convinced myself that it wasn't enough. I hesitantly raised the gun again and prepared to shoot her. She glanced up at me with tears in her eyes and croaked out "Why?"

She was asking me why. After all ll my protesting about her and the thing inside of her, she had the nerve to ask me why. She had proclaimed that there was no doubt in her mind about keeping it. I had warned her of what we would face. We didn't have all that much money and the lack of support from anyone else would make it near impossible. I wanted it to just be me and her until we were of age. A few years from then.

I felt my mouth gaping open at her and I quickly snapped it shut. Replacing the aim of the gun directed at her, I began to gain confidence. Her acting like this made it easier for me to do this. Or so I thought. I took a deep breath before moving my hand to grip the gun and place my finger on the trigger. She buckled slightly, falling to kneel on the floor. I panicked for an instant. She looked like she was begging or praying. How could I shoot her if she was doing either of those things? I lowered the gun slightly as I felt my heart leap in my throat. I was about to say something. To reassure her that I still loved her and that I was doing this for her. I lowered the gun and it was now pointing at her on the ground. My finger was off the trigger again and I was willing to talk. Seeing her like that made me hope there was someway to get past all this. Just for a moment, though. She cried out as the gun was lowered to her on the floor. She must have thought I was going to shoot her. I only wanted to talk. I wanted to know what she was thinking. I had been almost positive she wanted me to kill the baby for her, but now, watching her on the floor, something happened. I realized that she was hating me. She was looking at me with such an intense hatred. We had always been happy. What made me think it would stay the same even now? She reached forward quickly and grabbed the butt of the gun, pulling it away, but also pulling it towards her.

I'm having a mental break down and she's either trying to get the gun away or trying to get me to shoot her. All the doctors in the world wouldn't know which she wanted. But my finger was still off the trigger.

I opened my mouth and let out a low whine in lack of anything else to say or do. She let out a sob as she heard this and found the trigger herself. She couldn't even shut her eyes. With the cylinder of the gun buried into her stomach, she pulled the trigger. She slowly slumped to her side, pulling the gun out of my tensed hands and falling to the floor with it. I turned shakily and saw her lying there with her eyes open, staring to the side. I gained back my voice and let out an exasperated moan, falling to kneel beside her. Fuck the fingerprints, I grabbed her shoulders and shook her violently.

She might have been doing me a favor. She might have been trying to pull the gun away and accidentally shot it. Even now I don't know that. But I do know that it was I that killed my wife.