1968
George loved the way the rain sounded on the body of his 1966 Mustang Fastback. It sounded like a thousand tiny bottle-caps all going off at once. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His nostrils filled with night air and the smell of rain, but underneath was the smell of his freshly polished car. He had spent all day detailing it.
The smells and sounds took him back to the fall of '68 when he has first bought the car from his father. The draft more than a year away, and the whole world in front of him. He had his car, his girl, and a good job.
But all that was gone now. Lost to time.
He opened his eyes and turned to look at the house he parked in front of. It was nicer than his, a large two- story that no doubt was well designed (and well maintained) inside.
Was this where his wife lived now?
Ex-wife, he reminded himself. It had been almost two years since they had signed the papers. They were married forty-five years before throwing in the towel. And they were able to destroy it all with a couple of signed pieces of paper and a few meetings with lawyers. It was easier to break things now than in was in '68, and no one wants to mend something when it's easier to smash it to pieces.
And now Laura was with another man.
George hadn't expected the jealousy to burn so white hot, but it did. When he saw them together his vision narrowed, and everything else disappeared. Nothing mattered but the way he touched her back, the way she leaned into him. Hate filled him, bubbled up until it overflowed.
Since then it had gotten easier to see them, at work events and friendly functions. But deep within, the dark coals burned. Everyone warns you not to date someone you work with, let alone get married to them. If it all goes belly-up, you have to see them every day.
They're right.
A week ago, a dark idea had popped into the back of his mind. At first, he tried to resist, but it consumed him. At first taking small pieces, but eventually, it took large chunks.
He removed the gun from the glove compartment. Even through the clouds and rain, the moon shined bright, and the gun took on its shine, turning it from black to brilliant white in George's hands.
He realized how happy he was that he and Laura had never been able to conceive. It had, of course, driven a wedge between them--one of the many wedges over forty-five years. Slowly those wedges merged and grew, creating a canyon. But losing a father and a mother in one night would have been too much for them. It was better this way.
Again it struck him how much his life had changed. For
most of his life, he had hated guns. Hell, somewhere down deep inside him he probably still did. He was from Maine, and if you weren't a bleeding heart in Maine, you got funny looks. Gun control was important to him. But even his strongest beliefs couldn't stop him now.
When he got out of the car, George suddenly felt outside of himself--like he was watching a movie, not committing murder. It had to be a movie, had to be. The slamming of the Mustang's door sounded a million miles away, even though it was right behind him. He didn't feel the rain, even though it was coming down in sheets. Everything except the front door of his wife's new home was fuzzy, the way you only ever see in a film.
It had to be a movie.
George watched himself ring the doorbell. His wife's lover's terrified reaction was so exaggerated it was almost comical.
It had to be a movie.
His wife's screams seemed fake, like some horror-movie virgin screaming at a guy in a hockey mask.
It had to be a movie.
The darkness of the blood finally brought reality home to George. Blood in movies is always too red. The blood rushing like a river from Laura's chest was almost black.