I find his name in the newspaper.

Google is a beautiful thing.

His house is small with a white picket fence and a swing in the backyard.

I see red when I watch him kiss his wife goodbye and get into his shiny new car.

Why does he get to keep the things he loves?

I'll never have that.

My reason for living is six feet under.

I follow him downtown, where I assume he's going to work.

I bide my time as I gather my nerves.

Eyes closed, I think of you.

Hours pass, you're still on my mind.

Nothing has changed.

It's dark when I see him walk out into the alley where his car is parked.

One bullet is all it takes.

He's down, but the pain lingers, unyielding.

Another bullet frees me from it all.

So thank you to all that stuck to this until the end. I know, it's not HEA, but life doesn't always work out that way. This was a very hard writing excercise for me, not because it was hard to write, but because I was worried about what people would think. Thank you for not bringing the pitchforks...