The end feels different than you imagined.

There is no clean of the pen. No clean shots either. It’s bitter and fast-slow and desperate, guilty and messy and you are terrified and it feels like you don’t have a choice but to pull the trigger and keep pulling. Keep shooting.

Every shot is a variable. Some miss. Some don’t. Is it lucky that you miss less often? You don’t know. You keep shooting.

You remember her face when the shot catches you in the shoulder, how the bullet caught her back, spine arching, mouth gaping, soft curls framing her face as she fell. Hands clawing at concrete. A band of silver bright against the blood on her hands. The ring burns your finger and your hands keep shooting for you, even when you can’t feel them anymore.

Sometimes, victory isn’t victory. (He slumps against the seat.) Sometimes victory is holes in the windshield and glass in your lap, a bullet to the shoulder and a voice whispering this is your fault, you should have caught her, you should have known.

Sometimes, victory feels more like losing.