A grieving widow, a corrupt verdict, and a loaded .38—justice was denied in court, but tonight it waits outside his front door.
A Measure of Justice
The cardboard box smelled of gun oil, cedar, and Donnie’s sandalwood aftershave. Three months of marriage reduced to attic dust. Maggie’s fingers brushed past Donnie’s leather wallet, past the wedding band the coroner had slipped into a small plastic bag, until cold metal bit back.
The snub-nosed .38 was heavier than she remembered.
Across town, Roger Teils was likely pouring an expensive bourbon in his gated sanctuary, untouched by the wreck that obliterated her life. Two blocks after t-boning Donnie’s sedan, Teils had flattened a utility pole and walked away without a scratch. His blood alcohol was three times the legal limit, yet he walked with six months of community service, a suspended license, and a thousand-dollar fine—loose pocket change for a man who funded the presiding judge’s reelection campaign. Teils hadn’t offered an apology. He had simply chuckled to his lawyer that he’d remember to call a Lyft next time.
Maggie loaded five brass cartridges into the cylinder with a steady, rhythmic click.
She didn’t want to kill him. Death was too quick, too clean. Her mind painted a sharper picture: the smugness vanishing from his eyes as two deafening cracks shattered both his kneecaps. Let him learn the weight of permanent wreckage. Let him see how it felt to navigate the world from a wheelchair.
Rain lashed the windshield as Maggie parked two houses down from Teils’ sprawling driveway. The porch light flicked on. Teils stepped outside to toss a bag into the curb bin, whistling, utterly alone in the dark.
Maggie’s fingers tightened around the heavy steel in her pocket.
How does Maggie’s story end?
Does she step out into the rain and pull the trigger, confront him to make him look her in the eye, or realize that pulling that trigger will only destroy what is left of Donnie’s memory? Write the final scene and decide her fate.