He sat staring at the small semi-automatic pistol laying on the kitchen table. He had been staring at it for a long time. Thinking. Deciding. He knew what needed to be done. The pain had to stop. Her pain had to stop. He hated what was happening to her, but he was powerless to prevent it.
He picked it up, a shiver ran up his arm and a small voice nagged at him in the back of his mind, “Wrong.” it said, “This is wrong.” Normally, he would agree. But life had taken a turn. She was suffering. He had to stop the suffering. He loved her, he had to help her.
“I wonder if this will hurt her.” He whispered as he fingered the gun, getting accustomed to the hard, coldness of it. “Not for long, then she will be better. No more pain. This is kindness.”
He pushed the tears and the uncertainty aside, stood up and walked out the front door. He marched up the forest path to her favorite place. She liked the serenity of the clearing in the deep woods and the tall, straight poplars, the birdsong. His feet crunched in the dry leaves, doubt welled, he pushed it back and marched on. It had to be done.
He rounded a bend and saw the lounge chair she liked to sit in and think.
A single shot rang through the woods.
It took them 3 days to find his body.