by J. G. Sandom
I reached into my jacket, took my gun out and shot her – two times – in the chest.
Bang, bang.
More like two stifled sneezes than gunshots. Or the clanging of stones under water.
No one stirred. My daughter still played in the sprinkler, oblivious. And the incessant refrain of Mr. Billings’s lawnmower never wavered or stilled. It droned on and on as I climbed to my feet. I stood over her, I looked down at the livid red blood pumping out of her chest, at her iron-blue, china-doll eyes.
I put the gun on the lounge chair. I stared up at the sky, and felt myself soar toward the heavens, over my rooftop and lot, higher and higher, the tract houses blending together in lines, sinuous oxbow contortions, with oases of shimmering swimming pools punctuating the desert, as the Talking Heads’ Once in a Lifetime unrolled like a band of black, bitter licorice through my head.
“And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife, And you may ask yourself – well . . . how did I get here . . . And you may tell yourself, This is not my beautiful wife.”
Through the clouds I rose, higher and higher.
“And you may ask yourself, am I right? Am I wrong? And you may tell yourself, My god! What have I done?”
