Martin Meadows left the office early on Thursday to make the first express bus home. With briefcase stuck firmly underneath his arm, he boarded the bus in his usual unassuming manner, stumbling towards the back of the bus as it sputtered to its routine destination. Finding a seat well away from the other passengers, Meadows settled his short, stout frame into the rattling seat and began to whistle distractedly. He looked about cautiously as he cracked open the briefcase, his eyes catching hold of the revolver newly purchased. His lips curled in a malicious fashion as his fingers trailed the grooves of the cold metal chamber and his thoughts began to trail. To those who knew Martin Meadows, the balding bespectacled man of mild disposition and exceptional manners, it was inconceivable to imagine the intention that now lay in his heart.Meadows, a man of moderate income had a lovely home and an exceptionally lovely wife, Margaret. She was also a woman of exceptional wit and charm, so quite naturally, everyone was stunned when she selected Martin Meadows as her matrimonial partner. Soon after, their daughter Summer was born and their situation looked perfect indeed. It took two decades before an unfavorable light was cast upon the Meadows’ household. News of Margaret’s unfaithfulness had spread contagiously and it was not long before the news had reached Meadows himself. The news, however, came to no surprise to him, for he had known of his wife’s adulterous behavior months prior. The fact that her behavior was common knowledge drove the timid Meadows to the ultimate irrational solution…The bus jerked to a halt. “Mr. Meadows,” the bus driver shouted back, his brows rising suspiciously in the mirror, “isn’t this your stop?” Martin Meadows, stunned, bolted from his seat, sending the contents of the briefcase crashing to the floor. “Oh yes, yes,” he replied, awkwardly retrieving the papers to conceal the weapon now exposed. Clumsily, he fastened the metal hooks, the papers protruding from his briefcase as he scurried off the bus and onto his route. Crouching below the lined gates, he slowly made his way through the back lane and reached his home inconspicuously.Setting the briefcase gently on its worn side, he reached into his pockets, first the left then the right and carefully retrieved his keys. Slowly, he pushed the door open, abruptly freezing as the door began to whine on its hinges. Nervously, he waited before pushing and halting the door until a sizeable space was made. Encouraged by the view of emptiness, he advanced through the room and halted at the base of the stairway. Perching his briefcase next to Margaret’s shoes that lay nearby, he slowly retrieved the steel revolver. With unsteady hands and ragged, uneven breaths, he advanced up the first stair. You’re not going to get away with this Margaret, the voice pounded in his reddened ears. I won’t let you! You won’t cheat on me again! The second stair. I know what you did! The third. Everyone knows! The fourth. And now I know too! The fifth. You’re going to pay! The sixth. This ends now! The seventh. And so will you! The final stair. He now faced the closed door, the gun shaking wildly in his hand. Do it! the voice commanded. Obediently, Martin Meadows complied, turning the knob and thrusting open the door.There she lay, oblivious in slumber, her lifeless like figure deeply concealed in the folds of linen. Gathering the gun within his sweaty grip, he steadied his aim at the top of the blanket and fired. Meadows’ pudgy finger, heavy against the sensitive lever, sent the weapon into explosive spasms. In a frightened disbelief, he watched the blanket twist and jerk against the blasts before settling over the mangled form below. The gun’s contents, now emptied into his victim, fell heavy and useless at Martin Meadow’s feet.Suddenly conscious of his unspeakable act, he stumbled to the edge of the bed and began to wail uncontrollably. “Oh Maggie!” he lamented, grasping her blanketed feet and feverishly kissing them, “How could you do this to me? To us! I couldn’t let you leave me! I couldn’t!” He shook her lifeless form violently until her bloodied arm protruded from the covers. He clambered over to it and placed a gentle kiss into the pulseless palm. “Oh Maggie! Maggie! I’m sorry! Please forgive me!” he brushed her hand across his dampened face, the rings on her slender fingers cutting his skin. He climbed into the bed beside her, “I’m sorry! Sorry! Did you hear me?”Straddling over the bloodied sheets, he began to shake her, the blankets moving away to uncase the body twisted below. A cold chill immobilized his frenzied movements. Looking down at the expired figure, he began to choke and vomit, for it was not the unfaithful Margaret which lay tattered below. It was their daughter, Summer.
