I’m laying here swimming in memories, islands of blood forming around the bullet holes in my coat. My chest feels so heavy, when I was younger I would fight with my older brother, and his victory would be him sitting on my chest, refusing to let my lungs draw air. Thats what this feels like.

I hear the footsteps, high heels on cement, wavering and uncertain. The metal barrel of the smoking gun clatters near my head. I see the snub-nose of my revolver in the corner of a darkening eye. My lady, my mistress, my lover. Shot with my own gun, I feel so betrayed.

The dame, the murderess, the whore. Standing above me, I hear the shakes in her voice. The shakes, I had them for weeks after my first kill. I don’t envy her. Despite the shakes she’s singing, the words are garbled through the haze of death. I force clarity and I listen, the last thing I do before the darkness. She’s singing me the lullaby I taught her.

“I pray to god that you’re right before my eyes,
Bathed in white light with halos in your eyes…”