payback

A/N: It's true. I got angry and poor Ron had to pay for it... XD Let's just say this is the result of my husband walking out on me on my 23rd birthday. happy birthday to me... So.. tell me what you think. (and I'm sorry to all of you who like Ron. So do I, but he was convenient today...)

Being the smart one meant I wasn’t not stupid enough to have used a traceable hex of some kind. I don’t remember actually thinking the thought, but I knew that that would’ve been a very bad thing to do.

The outlines of my vision seemed to have taken on a slightly red tinge, and somewhere in the back of my formidable mind I knew that, had I been muggle, I would’ve been able to plead insanity in court. But it would never make it to court. I was sure of that. Even though I did use my knowledge of the muggle world to do it.

I don’t remember much of that day. I remember I had a gun. I don’t remember where I got it. I’m pretty sure I got it legally. I think. I also remember walking the streets of my hometown in some sort of a daze, almost as if I was in shock. I felt nothing but the anger.

It was consuming. It coursed through my veins, an all-consuming rage which filled me from head to toe, almost painful, but not quite. I let it eat me up with every step I took, every corner I turned, until I stood in front of my own front door. How fortunate he decided to deceive me while the kids were at school. Very convenient for me.

I had keys. Somewhere. But I didn’t remember where exactly. So I knocked, and he, bless him, opened the door.

It’s ironic that I led him into the library to do it. He hated my library. He hated the time I spent in there, reading, researching, doing what I did, and liked, best. He resented being in second place to my books. As I resented being in second place to his girlfriends.

He never saw it coming. Of course he didn’t. He had no idea what a gun was. Never heard of it. Idiot. I’m quite sure it wouldn’t have made a difference if he had though.

It was with great satisfaction that I pulled the trigger. I was determined to make him pay, so I shot his kneecap to bits first. I watched him collapse to the floor in pain while the blood started to pool around him on my once pristine white carpet. I made him scramble painfully towards the far wall, the only wall free of bookcases, before I hit him in the chest. Not the heart, not yet, though judging by the blood he had already lost, I would have to make it quick.

I don’t remember what our parting words were. I remember I said something before I took that final shot, but for the life of me, I don’t remember what it was. The only thing I really, truly, will never forget was the look in his bright blue eyes.

And I will cherish forever how those bright eyes lost their shine when I squeezed my finger and blew the top of his head clean off. The way the blood and chunkier parts of him eased themselves a way down my once eggshell wallpaper, the way his body sagged against it, the splatter of brain and bits of skull framing his head like a sort of demented halo. I remember thinking it being the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

The next thing I remember is standing in front of a door. A door I know I had never seen before. Thinking back on it, I couldn’t have seen it before. I had never been to that part of Wales before. I remember the door opening and being pulled inside, but that’s about all before I passed out on a hallway floor.

I was told I had slept for three days. I was told I had knocked on the door covered in blood. I was told that it was a mystery how the blood got on me. That my husband was missing but there was no evidence to where he had gone. That I had to be grateful that in my distressed state, I had been able to apparate to a person in stead of a location. That I ended up on that particular doorstep.

And that I might never recover the full memory of my thirty-second birthday.

I never told anyone what I do remember. I never told anyone who’s doorstep it had been that I had appeared on. I never told anyone where I moved after I sold the house, or who I moved in with. The only thing they knew was that my new husband barely spoke because of the scar on his neck. And that when he did, it always sounded as though he was a lecturing professor. If only they knew.

A/N: thanks for reading....