This is a story, and a poem, of what came after and what happened when he shot her. What came before? That's all up to you.
What came before he was grabbed
And shoved, right into the merciless
Jaws of death, closing tight around his
Ankle, piercing the skin with teeth like needles,
Well, what came before was simple.
He beat her halfway to death, then choked
Her against the wall to steal her breath,
The shot to the chest silencing her forever.
So that when his mother, completely unsuspecting,
Swung by to visit her son, she found his dead wife
On the kitchen floor, white tiles immaculate except
For the scarlet drops scattered around the girl's
Head, dyed blonde hair fanned out, and the pretty
Blue apron she was wearing stained red. So the mother
Screamed, her shaking hands dialing the emergency number,
Saying the words she thought she'd never have to say.
'He shot her, oh my god, he actually shot her.'
Her sister crumpling to the floor in a swift movement,
'Till time was measured in shattered heartbeats and pain,
So much pain. And she screamed and cried and she broke inside.
So that girl walking on the side of the street with her head hung low
And her hands clutching each other in a death grip?
Give her space, please. She's never going to recover,
Not after her sister was so brutally ripped away from
Her, without so much as a goodbye.