Author's Note: Just to clear something up, this is a COMPLETELY FICTITOUS scenario. Nothing here will ever be attempted. Thank you.

Forget Me Not

I can hear the dog barking in the backyard, howling, knowing that it's me, the ex-boyfriend. Knowing what I'm about to do, because it can smell the rage washing off me like a waterfall.

The father answers the door. How perfect, that he answers.

He's the father that I respect, and even admire at some points.

But, he has to go; they all have to go.

And so, the first shot roars out, and he falls, not even given time to look surprised that it's me that puts that lovely hole between his eyes.

Me, with a gun I don't even know the name of.

Me, the nice quiet ex that never complained or shouted.

The sound brings the rest of the family running from the kitchen where they've been eating dinner.

The fat bitch sister is last into view, following closely by the fat bitch step-mother that I hate.

The fat bitch sister is the next to die, of course, since she could break me just by hitting me.

All that flab sure doesn't help one dodge bullets, does it?

No, no it doesn't.

The step-mother is next, and goes down as I cross into the threshold. Her complaining, bitching, selfish mouth can't save her now. What's the use of being spoiled by your husband if you can't dodge bullets?

Not much use at all, apparently.

The little sister and the girl I love her self reach me, and try to tackle me—try to get this gun out of my hand.

But, the shot fires again, and the little sister goes down, shocked that me—her favorite to patronize—killed her.

Getting your way all the time just because you're the baby of the family really doesn't lend to dodging bullets, does it?

Then again, nothing really does, does it?

And there, my lovely, ignorant ex flies against the wall with a little assistance from my arm.

For all that time, I thought she cared.

I cared, for sure.

For all that time she avoided me.

I thought she was busy.

For all that fucking time she "forgot to call back."

I remembered.

Oh hell yes, I remembered.

So, my lovely ex, remember this.

I guarantee you will.

I'll give something to fucking remember for the rest of your fucking life.

And so, with this borrowed gun, I put the burning muzzle against my temple, and stare her straight in her pretty eyes, and pull the trigger.

Remember this, bitch.

And all my reasoning, forgiving, and soft-speaking, never really helped me dodge a bullet, did it?

No, and nothing ever will.


There will be no explanation of the events in this short-story other than my very twisted mind cooking up a "what-if" scenario. And no, I won't explain my inspiration either, suffice it to say, that the views in this fiction aren't in any way reflected by myself or my desires or opinions. It's just a story, people.