Guilt

This is originally a screenplay but I wanted to have a story written just because

The blood pools around her golden hair. The sunlight glints off the crimson puddle and I can see my reflection in her blue eyes. Her face is upturned, the ragged hole in her forehead staring at me. And her eyes are locked on mine, in an accusing gaze. It’s as if she’s asking “Why?”
Because… because you asked me to, baby.
***
Wednesday, May 19th.
She was sleeping next to me. I could see her chest slowly rise and fall as her breath rushed out of her. Cotton rested, rumpled, on her smooth belly. Her hand had pulled it up slightly while she was sleeping. In the rays of the moon, I could see a round, dark purple bruise just above the waist of her pants. I turned away. I couldn’t bear to remember that day. In the other room I heard a baby’s cry.
***
Thursday, May 20th.
We sat at the kitchen table, she with her cereal, and I with my pancakes. I could see the pain in her eyes, though her smile didn’t reflect it. But I knew. In the darkness of her eyes, in the hesitation she showed when she lifted her spoon: like she wanted to lift it to someone else’s mouth. She looked at me and asked “what’s wrong babe?”
My god, she’s beautiful. The sun was shining on her curls. They were impossibly bright.
“Nothing,” I told her.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
But we both know that’s a lie. We continued eating our breakfast. My eyes were fixated on the plate sitting in front of me. I swear I saw a small green bowl out of the corner of my eye. A high chair was placed in front of it. I dropped my fork and it disappeared.
***
Thursday, May 20th.
Later that night, she cried my name. I could hear a tinge of sadness tucked deep in her moans. Is this part of the grieving process? I turned my head and saw the baby monitor I had bought prematurely. A pill container rested against it, the Thursday slot empty. The light on the baby monitor flickered and a baby’s coo emanated from the speaker.
***
Monday, May 24th.
I’m sitting on our bed, staring at the gun in my hands. It’s cold, hard, metallic. I can’t stand the fact that it could have been replaced by something warm, soft, alive. She can’t stand it either, I know. She doesn’t show it, but she’s hurting inside. And she can’t live with herself but she’s scared. She doesn’t think she’s strong enough. So I have to be strong for the both of us. I look at the toys tucked in the corner of our bedroom. They’re not used, but they have scuff marks on them and moisture stains.
“Babe? What are you doing?”
I can tell she’s terrified.
“I know you’re scared baby. But I’m here for you.”
I stand and level the gun with her. The slide shoots back and cuts my hand. The wood on the doorway behind her explodes. Her feet pound on the hallway, towards the living room. I run after her, past the stairwell where a pool of blood stains the floor. She has the phone in her hand and soon I have a bowl in mine. I throw it at her and she ducks, instinctively dropping the phone. She stands up and turns to me as a bullet ruptures her stomach. Blood seeps through the white shirt, stains her black pants. I hear her start to speak but her voice is drowned out by the sound of a second gunshot. Blood trickles down onto her nose and a single drop falls to her feet. She collapses backwards. I stand over her. Her face is upturned, the ragged hole in her forehead staring at me. Her eyes are locked on mine in an accusing gaze. It’s as if she’s asking me “Why?”
Because… because you asked me too, baby.
***
Monday, May 24th.
The dying rays of sun blanket the golden sand. It’s ethereal. The water stretches into the distance, seemingly forever. And I stand on the shore, a speck on the horizon. To my left, about thirty feet, I see a couple walking with a child between them. The woman’s yellow locks fall down her back. The man has short, cropped hair. Though the child is turned away from me, I can tell she has the best features of the parents. It’s amazing. Out of two different people, from two different families, a single body emerges. Two legacies survive through one child. It’s a miracle. I start to cry. But only for a second. We’ll be together soon, Hannah and I. I just know it. The last thing I feel is the cold barrel against my temple. The last thing I hear is the explosion of gunpowder followed by a child’s laugh.