High Noon by Roger Woodcock

The blood spread slowly out from his chest like ripples on a pond. He stared down at the figure, the gun falling limply by his side. It was his own fault, sneaky little bastard. Only he wasn't so little was he? Was that why his wife had fallen for him, the rippling muscles, the tight, groin-hugging jeans? He knew he'd never been good enough for her, no ambition, no drive, no bloody anything. He watched the crimson stain glistening in the noonday sun. The sap thought he was meeting Glenys here, a remote corner of the Park where they could sit in his car and do unspeakable things to each other. He imagined them together, the windows steaming over with their heavy, passionate breathing, the car gently rocking to the rhythm of their bodies. 

`Not much of a Lothario are you now Brian?` he spat, feeling the still warm pistol tight in his hand. Across the Park the bells of the local church chimed out the hour. What would God think of him now? A crime of passion, perfectly understandable, wipe the slate clean, a one way ticket through the pearly gates, no awkward questions to answer? Or would He tut-tut, tell him it was never the answer, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and he was sorry and all that but, hey, he must pay the ultimate price? 

He knelt down, a sad smile on his face as he closed his victims eyelids before reaching for the phone in his jacket pocket. He punched out the three digits, listening patiently as the number rang out. Through misting eyes he gazed at the prone figure, his arm lifting the pistol to his head, his voice whispering softly . `Don`t let me set eyes upon you again.` 

Published in Issue #23

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