I thought that falling in love was supposed to be one of those happy things, one of those things that you do once and forever. And, well, it is forever, but what I never bargained on was the pain that came with it.

He and I were perfect, one and the same, two peas in a pod, whatever way you want to say it, we were meant for each other. Being with him was like being in a cloud, walking while your stomach does flip flops, floating fully two feet above the ground. His name was Michael King. And I loved him.

I still remember the last words I said to him, the last time I saw his face, the last time I told him I loved him.

I still remember the day he died. Maybe it would have been more tragic if he had gotten in a car accident, or maybe it would have made a better story if he died of cancer. But no, my husband was killed. And maybe it would have hurt less if I wasn’t there, if I hadn’t seen it, if it had been me who had gone in his place. But I am still here, and he is not. It feels as if I have been torn in two, like my whole left side has been ripped out, and my heart with it. I’ve had to explain to my children that daddy has gone to a better place, where Monday night football is on every night and you can eat all the candy you want without getting cavities. It’s hard to make a child understand the true meaning of gone, of death.

It was February 22nd, 2005. He and I lay asleep on our bed, in our room, me clasped in his arms like a favorite toy. It was warm, unusually warm for February, and we had our second story window open. The breeze blew through the room and ruffled the beige curtains he and I had picked out. The scene was as peaceful and as content as life could get. And in a second, it all changed.

I woke first, opening my eyes and looking around, noting every discrepancy in the room. Something…just didn’t feel right. Like our room had been violated, like there was something unwanted in its midst. I pushed away his arms and sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and peering closely. I knew there was something wrong, but I didn’t know what. The uneasy feeling in my stomach proved me right. I shook Michael awake, pressing my fingers to my lips and motioning him up. He sat up, looking puzzled, questioning me with a glance. I pressed my finger to my lips again and slowly got out of bed, my feet swinging to the floor. It cracked a little as I put my full weight on it, creaking as old houses do. He copied me, with less caution, still unsure what was happening.

I have a closet, a walk-in closet, full of clothes and shoes and forgotten Christmas presents. It is where I keep the candy I want to hide from the children, and the lingerie that my husb- Michael bought me.

It was to this closet that I walked, Michael a step behind, and it was this closet that I opened, forever changing my life. I keep my jewelry in my closet, the cameo my grandmother gave to me, the diamond ring that Michael bought me for our ten-year anniversary. I keep it there in a little jewelry box that my daughter made for me. And I found it, when I opened that closet, being held in the hands of somebody else.

I screamed. I hate to admit it, but I screamed. He turned to look at me, the box in his hand, the gun flashing in the moonlight.

The gun. I still remember that gun. I remember every detail. A .45 caliber smith and Wesson, black, inlaid with curls of designs. Tarnished, like it had been left outside for many years. That gun. That gun that took my husband’s life.

It flashed as he swung to meet me, its silver barrel aimed toward my heart. I froze, not knowing what to do, not knowing how to react. I, who could have changed it all, who could have been the reason my husband lived, I froze.

The intruder took a step forward, placing my jewelry box under his arm, hefting the gun in his hand.

His profile was that of old blood, a straight nose, high cheekbones, and dark hair, eyes gaunt with desire. His expression showed no fear as he stepped forward again, closing the distance between us. I still sat stasis, my muscles locked with the aching terror of uncertainty. Michael, however, held no such problem. He stepped forward too, pushing me behind him as he met the prowler face to face.

“This is my home,” he said, his voice strong with passionate guardianship, “what are you doing in it?”

“Just get out of my way and I won’t have to kill you,” the man said, readjusting his gun for Michael’s height. Michael did not move, would not move. Michael, bless his heart, refused to be intimidated by a burglar in his home.

They were close, my husband and this man who came into our house so easily. They were close enough as they stared each other down, each trying to force the other to his will.

“One last chance,” the man said, “or I’ll shoot you. Shoot you dead and take your pretty little wife too. I’m warning you, this is your last chance.”

Michael did not move. I whimpered, holding his shoulders, trying to tell him without words to back off. And he didn’t. He stayed. God damn him and god damn me for letting him. He stayed. Faster than the moon’s light could follow, that monster, that attacker who had invaded our home, that filth that stole from me everything I held dear, stepped forward once more and shot my husband.

I at last found my voice. I screamed as Michael fell from my lifeless hands. I screamed, as the pool of blood began gathering about my feet. I screamed as my throat became seared with the pain and the terror and the hate. The hate for the minion of evil that dared walk through my doors, that dared to come into my room, that dared to shoot the love of my life. That hate became a storm that brewed within me and burst from me in such a terrible form of rage that I leapt for that dog’s throat. Leapt for it, screaming a primeval war cry that burned the very air around me.

He was startled, not expecting such a savage reaction from me. I slammed into him with the full force of my body, my weight making him stagger back a few steps. I tore into him with my bare hands, ripping everything my hands could grasp, feeling the soft flesh of his face give way to my anger.

He began to shout, tried to get me off him, tried to shove me from his body. I clung with all the might I had, scratching and tearing and screaming. He staggered back again, trying to cover his face with his hands.

That gun. That gun that shot my husband was still in his hand. I took that gun. I wrenched it from his grasp and held that gun. Time slowed as I stared again at the black, tarnished, smith and Wesson. And without a second thought, without one moment of considering or regret or lament, I shot him. He cried out, clutching his stomach as he too, began to bleed. Began to bleed like the man I loved. And I shot him again. The bitter ring of it resounded with the walls of my closet, echoing on the acrid fury within. He dropped. He made no more noise. He bled. And he bled.

I held that gun in my hand and I felt the weight if it, of lives past and gone, I felt the weight of my husband’s blood on the muzzle. I felt the weight of the future in that gun, of the hopes and the dreams that I held, I felt them the weight of them draining away as I held that gun.

I looked over the two bodies on the floor of my closet. One of the man that centered in my world, and one of the man who took him away. I looked and I cried. I dropped the gun and fell to my knees and cried to the god who allowed this to happen.

He and I were perfect, one and the same, two peas in a pod, whatever way you want to say it, we were meant for each other. His name was Michael king. And I loved him.