The gun was cold and heavy. Heavier than she expected it to be. After all, she’d never held one before this. She thought all guns would be smooth, metallic things; silver and hard plated like in the movies. The gun she held was a pistol, except its six-inch barrel was cold, black steel, attached to a chestnut handle. It was the only thing that sat on the counter top in front of her.
“I thought you didn’t know how to use one of those,” a male voice said.
She looked up. Across the table was a man, her husband. His dark hair was cropped close to his head and his facial hair hid most of the bruise that blossomed on his right cheek.
“I don’t,” she said.
The sirens began to blare from outside the house. There was a breach. The investigators had come back. She knew this day would come. Her husband made a motion with his fingers, beckoning for the gun.
“Then give it here,” he said, forehead sweaty.
She ran the tip of her finger up the barrel and licked her dried lips, eyes flickering from the steel in her hand to the man across the small island. The kitchen seemed quiet save the sound of sirens wailing.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Just let me do it.”
He shrugged and she scowled, sliding the gun across the table. She watched him catch the gun and pop the barrel. The chambers were full. The man checked it before he spun it around and snapped it closed. He set the gun down on the table and slid it back towards her.
“How noble of you,” she said, taking the gun with her clammy hands.
“I changed my mind,” he said.
She pursed her lips and nodded.
“It’s not an easy thing to do,” she said, looking at the gun in her hands. They would be here soon. Their paradise was coming to an end. Mr. Jones said this would happen.
She took a deep breath and let out a long sigh before standing up.
“I’m ready,” she said.
“Can I at least say goodbye?”
“No. You’ll make it difficult. Just wait here.”
She left the kitchen and walked down the hall. She didn’t stop till she reached the end.
To her left was a door. She opened it and saw two children; her two boys, sitting in the middle of the room, playing with their toy trucks and action heroes. She went to them, white dress fluttering around her ankles. The mother knelt.
“You remember when mommy told you one day the bad men would come? That they would burn down our home, our precious compound, and take us prisoner?”
They looked up at her with big eyes, silent.
“But we mustn’t let the devils from the outside take us, right?”
She saw the oldest take his brother’s hand.
“You believe in Mr. Jones?”
They were silent.
“You’ll go to hell if you don’t.”
“We believe, mommy,” her oldest boy said.
“Good…you’re good boys.”
Their eyes began to water. They saw the gun in her hand. But this was the easiest way. She was sparing them.
“Close your eyes,” she said.
They were whimpering now, crying their precious eyes out.
“Close your eyes, boys.”
She shot them both, once in the head, blood soaked into the carpet. Her eyes burned and tears slid down her face. Their toys were now crimson.
“Good Lord…,” a voice said from behind her.
She turned to see her husband.
“Quick, they’re almost here,” he said.
She nodded. “I want to go first. I wanna meet my boys.”
Her husband grimaced but nodded. He watched as she placed the gun to her head and blew her brains across the wall.
Outside, he could hear shouting. If they were this close, they would be at the compound soon. He hoped they would never make it that far.
The father picked up the pistol as boots kicked down the front door. He placed the pistol to his own head and waited near the corpses of his family. Soon, two men entered the doorway. Their faces paled. The father smiled.
“You’ll never take Jonestown.”
Then he pulled the trigger.