I was so desperate. I had to do something. What color is desperation? I want to say red, but that is the color I reserve for anger, and well orange? Orange is just too happy. Can’t be purple. That’s my favorite color, or maybe purple is perfect. The purple swollen bruise forming an imprint of his fist on my cheek. That kind of purple that looks like it could just as easily turn blue or black. My fingers tremble over swollen skin.
Purple becomes the color as desperate as the cold metal of the gun I hold in my hand, smoking. I contemplate his wound, around it, where the bullet entered his body, if you look past the deep burgundy of the blood pooling around him, it’s purple too.
Whose desperate now?
I see the answer. In his eyes. Right before they go blank and just stare.
I hover over his once desperate body. I am glad. For one moment, he got to feel it too. I look into his dead eyes hoping to see a glimmer of that soul sucking empty feeling, hoping it will follow him into death. I don’t see it, but as I hear the sirens coming, coming to get me, I notice I am free of it. The pain in my cheek sparks. I realize the pain is because I am smiling, happy in my new fleeting freedom. No prison could be as bad as the one I lived in with him.
I, in my minds eye, put the last image of him in my rolodex of thoughts. The last image of him burned into place, filed. Him, for just a moment, as desperate as me. They cuff me and take me away.
I was so desperate. I had to do something.