She sat at the bar, absentmindedly lifting the glass to her lips to let the bourbon and vodka sear down her throat. His cello laid in the corner, its neck separated from the body. “Go ahead, pull the trigger.” She said as footsteps entered the room. “There is nothing that can heal me from this pain.” Tears fell down her face.
Holding the gun, she sighed and returned the gun to its holster. She climbed onto the seat next and said, “I know, that is why I’m letting you live, so you can endure the pain of murdering my brother.”
Each week, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple hosts Friday Fictioneers where we’re challenged to write a piece of flash fiction in 100 words, more or less, based on the picture above.