Acrid bile crept up from my stomach. The thought of that thing touching me was too much. I stared down at my wife’s placid face, a little puffy from the endless sleep. I tried to steel myself to turn around and see the same face, pristine and perfect on the pseudo.

Rehearsing the plan one last time in my head I said, “I…know. I know what you’ve done.”

“Your grief, dear…”

“Don’t call me that!” Spittle fell on my chin, I and knew my face was going red. But I had to stay in control. “She’d be awake if not for you. What did you think? If she languished long enough, what, that I’d come to love you?!”

It took a step back, “You don’t know what you’re saying.” Its voice was pleading, pleading with my wife’s voice. That was the last straw. I spun and whipped the revolver from under my jacket with my left hand, an old school solution to a new school problem.

But I wasn’t fast enough, of course I wasn’t. She caught my left hand like it was nothing. But she wasn’t expecting what I had in my right.