Congratulations on Being Proven Right!

“WE’LL SEE WHO’S RIGHT!”

Those will be her last words as she walks into the field, sweater battered against her skin by the rain, breasts firm against it, hair pasted against her scalp, mouth beautiful even as she turns it into the foulest pout she can manage. That will be how she remains, forever frozen in your mind, just outside of the canopy of the tree.

Which will be way better than the image of her a few seconds later, after the lightning bolt hits her dead in the chest, fusing her sweater to her skin, charring her bone and rocking her body with such a serious concussive force that she loses consciousness, mercifully, immediately. She won’t know how her body desperately attempted to restart itself, how you pressed your moist lips against her charred ones struggling to remember the number of pumps for CPR, weeping uncontrollably as you waited for the storm to abide, for a chance to move her back home, take her to your car, to a hospital, anywhere but that field.

We’re not sure how you’ll be able to keep those images out of your head, but that’s not our job. We’re not your fucking therapist. That’s Craig, and Craig, turns out, was fucking your wife and telling her the ways that you were complaining about her behind her back, which is a big part of why she kept getting into fights with you at the drop of a dime. Like that argument about where it’s safest to stand during a thunderstorm that made her leave the tree and get struck by lightning.

Which means really all of this is Craig’s fault if you think about it. So take the shotgun from over the fireplace, make sure it’s loaded, and take a drive to his office. You know what to do from there.

Congratulations on Being Proven Right!