A Simple Tool – By Matt Mok
She found the Colt 1911 in a box behind an old pair of snow boots. It was old, some of its metallic luster lost after years of storage. Her grandfather carried it at Normandy, shot Germans with it, served two tours with it strapped to his hip until he returned home. It was never fired again, but he kept it clean and oiled, meticulously and compulsively. When he died, he left it to her.
She held it now, feeling its weight, the wood grips comfortable in her hands. She had spent over an hour looking for it, growing frustrated as she rummaged through the closet, a battlefield of discarded boxes piling up behind her through the effort. When she found it and loaded the magazine, she began to shake. When she pulled back the slide and chambered the first round, she wished she had never found it.
She walked with fleeting resolve into the next room and looked at the man tied to the chair. He looked back at her, defiance brimming over his dilated pupils. A sad gaze broke her stolid expression. She stood in front of him, leveled her arm, and pressed the gun to his forehead. From behind the gag, his breaths grew quick and ragged.
“You should’ve just left us alone,” she said, restraining the quiver in her voice. “I’m sorry. I really am.”
She pulled the trigger. She was free.