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Mercy Killing --
Part 5
by Cynthia Piromalli
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D-Day. I was feeling okay until Robert got home - with no idea what we had in store for him of course. Then my nerves jumped on my back and wouldn't let go, but I couldn't back out now.
The sound of rushing water sounded louder than I ever thought it could. Robert had been in the shower for nearly half an hour; it was almost time. My hands, trembling now, gripped the gun. I looked up at Chris, visibly shaking and with eyes firmly in the direction of the bathroom.
As was routine, Chris laid out Robert's fresh clothes on the bed. The water in the shower turned off - that sound, so abrupt and sooner than I was ready for it, had never effected me as much as it did then. I gave Chris a hurried glance then slid behind the door, giving the gun a quick peck for luck.
Robert came out of the bathroom. I remember the steam from the hot water flowing out and thinking that it made a very dramatic effect - a thought that made me smile, though only for a moment. Chris moved to the other side of the room and folded some clothes as Robert came in.
"Your clothes are on the bed, darling." I noticed the tremble in her voice. Robert didn't, but I guess I had an ear for that sort of that at that particular moment.
"Of course they are."
Those were his last repugnant words.
Or, at least, they should have been.
It was the loudest gun shot I had ever heard. Christina's scream pierced my ears too. But I swear my breathing must have been the loudest of all.
I saw the blood first. Then the most awful thing I had ever seen in my life: this severely ticked off guy, naked except for a damp towel just barely hanging from his waist, clutching a bleeding arm. His eyes sent a chill down my spine like never before. My first thought was not how the hell I could have missed a huge torso like that - that was my second thought - but to grab Chris and get the hell out of there.
I ran over to the other side of the bed where she had ducked to the floor, scooped her up with one arm and tried to run fast enough for the both of us. The only way out was past Robert. I was hoping that he would still be in shock. But as Christina was tripped and we became airborne only to nose dive on the worn brown carpet, I figured that a guy like Robert must have been shot more than once in his life and felt about as shocked as a cardboard cut out.
But as we looked up at the huge creature still clutching Christina's ankle with his good arm, I realised that this guy was no cardboard cut out. And he was as mad as hell.
The dull pain of his fist meeting my head convinced me of that.
© Cynthia M. Piromalli 2002
©2002 StoriesByEmail.com
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