Leaving the driver’s seat of my car, keys twirling around my finger, and a smile on my face. I can’t wait to walk through the door and tell my wife what an amazing day I had at work. Got myself a promotion and landed a new campaign deal as well. As I put the key in the door to enter my house, I can’t help but notice a really nice sports car parked out front. There the neighbors go again; I guess I’m not the only one who got a raise. I walk in the house, and proceed up the stairs. Something seems to have caught my attention while walking up the stairs. It’s a noise coming from my bedroom, a noise that sounds familiar. It’s the type of noise I was used to my wife bellowing out during our late night evenings together.
Just to make sure it wasn’t in my head I walked to the semi open door to see my wife. Only the man whom she was on top of wasn’t me. I must be seeing things, there is no way my wife is having an affair. What should I do? Should I barge in and confront her and the man? Should I stand there and continue to see it all play out? Should I just turn around and leave? To my dismay, I decided to leave the scene. Here I am walking down the stairs of my own home, while my wife is upstairs having sex with another man. Some men would have ran in the room, but I was too hurt by what I was witnessing. In that moment, everything had been stripped from me; my self-esteem, my confidence, and my manhood.
There is no worse feeling as a man than to come home to your wife cheating on you. Now look at me, exiting the premises of a house that’s mine. A house that took my blood and sweat to build. A house that I raised my children in for years. I wanted to turn around and walk back inside, but the pain was too much to bare; I was a broken man. With so much pain, mixed in with so much anger I was a walking time bomb. So I tried conversing with myself, “Calm down, go for a walk; everything is going to be ok.” I was talking to myself as if what I had witnessed had not happened.
But it was there, it was real, no matter how hard I wanted to ignore it. I could still see them in that room. Now thoughts are running through my mind. Was I not satisfying enough? Is he a better lover than I am? Had she had enjoyed herself with me as she did with him? Then the thoughts started to really move into far left field. Does he have a better sexual prowess than I do? When she is on top of me, is it the same as when she is on top of him? The more I thought about what he was doing to my wife back in the house, the more pain turned to anger. Then the anger turned to rage. Eventually I wanted a way to make her feel the pain I was feeling.
And him, what kind of man would go after a married woman? Are there not enough women out in the world to choose from? Why does he have to have my wife? That son of a bitch should pay, they should both pay. I wish I knew if he were in a relationship, I bet his wife wouldn’t appreciate her husband cheating on her. I wonder if he had children; some nerve, he should be at home with his family. I bet his wife is just as confused about where her husband is at, as I am wondering why my wife is cheating. Then again, he could have an open marriage. He could be married to one of those types of women that don’t mind her husband enjoying the company of other women. Fine then, but why must he choose my wife.
Look at me, this is ridiculous, how do I even know that he’s married. He could be single, with no wife and no children. But what kind of middle aged man has never gotten married or have had children? If it’s true, then he must have some really major issues. What type of woman would want to be with such a man? Hold on a minute, my woman. I am sitting here out in front of my house, talking to myself like an ass, when I should be in there. That’s what I should do, walk in that house and confront her and him. You know what, I’m passed that, it’s times like these I need to make a quick stop to by my wooden cabinet case. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do, I’ll show her.
As I walk back into the house, her sounds which were once soft have become a little louder. Must you have no shame, I could be standing at the door, and yet she’s still going. As I make my way to the wooden cabinet, something keeps me from opening the cabinet; a voice. The voice was my own, almost as if someone else was in the room. It was an inner thought that said, “Think, think before you open that cabinet.” “Once you go forward there is no reverse.” I didn’t care, if someone could hurt me, I felt it justified me hurting someone else. I swung open that cabinet and there lied a plethora of firearms.
What should I choose from, the Thirty Eight, the Twenty Two, my Beretta, or the Magnum? Better yet, I should use that army knife and just stab the both of them. No, I’m using the Magnum, it’s power and the death is quick. I reached to grab the gun when it came to me. What a minute. I can’t do this, what about my children? How would they feel knowing their father killed their mother? My daughter in college, my son. How will it affect them? A mother dead and a father in prison. Just like that, I placed the gun back in the cabinet. Closing the cabinet I walked back to the foyer where I could hear my wife moaning. The sound of her voice flushed out any feeling I had about the kids being disappointed.
That was it, I didn’t care. Screw this; screw her, screw him, screw this house, screw it all. Walking back to the cabinet, I shut my mind off to any voice that may have had the ability to stop. I once again grabbed the Magnum, only this time, I was headed upstairs to my room. Not even running, I actually took my time, as I let the rage build inside of me. Once at the top of the stairs, I heard a car pull up. From the top of the stairs the headlights of the car was pulling into the driveway. I thought to myself, this is how it’s going to go down. Your wife and her lover in the bedroom and one of my children are about to come through that door.
Instead of trying to convince myself to not go along with shooting, shooting my wife made more sense now than earlier tonight. One of my children are about to walk through those doors and catch their mother cheating on their father. That’s it, she’s going to get it; they’ll both get it. I fiercely stormed into the bedroom. Without even saying a word, I emptied the gun in the bed where my wife and her lover were having sex. Just then the front door slams, and I hear feet running up the stairs. As I move closer toward the bed, the gun still drawn, the bedroom door swings open. My wife is standing in the doorway covering her mouth with both hands.
I quickly turn my attention back to the bed, and roll over the body of the dead female; it’s my daughter. My wife runs to the bed, screaming at me and crying. How couldn’t I have known? I mean they have the same hair color and body type, but shouldn’t a man know the difference between his wife and daughter? My wife is crying, my daughter is dead, but who is the guy. Is that someone she met in at school? Maybe she was bringing him home to meet me. Whatever the case may be, I couldn’t believe it. I had shot my own daughter in a rage of jealousy because I thought she was cheating.
While my wife is still consoling my daughter I back paddled out the bedroom. I could barely keep my footing, as I walked down the stairs. As I reached the bottom stairs, my eyesight caught the attention of the open wooden cabinet. The gun was slightly hanging in my hand as I dropped it to the floor. Looking upstairs and hearing my wife’s screams, I almost turned around, but decided to walk back to the cabinet. Only this I grabbed the Beretta and closed the cabinet. After closing the cabinet, I walked to the living room and sat on the couch.
Here I am, sitting on the couch with my Beretta in hand. A distraught wife, a dead daughter, and someone’s son is dead. I could not believe it; I took the life of some innocent young man because of my own insecurities. I took a look over my shoulder as if I were checking to see if my wife was coming downstairs. After no one was in the vicinity, I looked to the ceiling, and closed my hands. Handgun on the trigger I put the Beretta under my chin, “Honey dad’s sorry, please God forgive me.” Then, I pulled the trigger.
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