“She got violent. Scratched me up a bit and broke a few frames. Threatened to slit my throat if I didn’t tell you to back off. Next day, she was gone.”
(One pull of the trigger. Just one.)
“Hailey wanted me to braid her hair the other day. Cried, because I didn’t do it like her mommy. How the hell am I supposed to pick out clothes and shoes for them? How am I supposed to do it alone until they’re 18?”
(Better than drugs.)
“And then I’ll have two weddings to pay for, two colleges to pay for. I can’t even afford to fix the stoop, and I’m going to put ten grand down for them to—“
I pulled the trigger to stop his whining.
No, no. It was in defense. I’d have to repeat those words to other cops, to my boss, to a judge. In defense. I didn’t want to do it, didn’t mean to. If I didn’t shoot, he would’ve. I was almost positive about it.
While catching the breath I lost in the commotion, I looked from his slumped body to the transparent wire thrown across the floor, wondering if I could reuse it. Wondering if the high would feel as good as it had the first time.