“Do it, or I’ll shoot you myself,” said Chester.
Her ex-husband’s words were still ringing in Penny’s ears, along with the deafening explosion of the gun. She slipped down on the couch, curling her body into a ball. She shivered under the friendly caress of her grandmother’s afghan, comforted by the familiar warmth as she pulled it up around her chin. She felt so cold. Numb.
Damn, Chester, and his stupid drunken games. Forcing her to play Russian Roulette with a loaded gun. Making her press the muzzle of the gun to her temple, pointing his own revolver at her until she pulled the trigger. Click. His obscene laughter filling her tiny apartment as urine stained her jeans, and fouled the air.
“Chicken shit,” he’d laughed. “There’s only one bullet in the cylinder. The odds are in your favor. But, hey, even if it does go off, I don’t get charged with your murder, cause you pulled the trigger. That restraining order of yours ain’t working so well now, is it?”
The blast from the gun had made her jump. Lying on the couch, she watched a trickle of blood slowly drift across the linoleum. Penny knew she should call the police, tell them what happened. But Chester wasn’t quite dead yet.