Jeremy shot me through the heart.  It hurt like a bitch, too; but, only for a few seconds.  I watched him fade away.  It was like looking through the lens of a camera as the shutter snapped closed in slow motion.  It never even occurred to me to curse him.  I can't recall any feelings at all, actually.  Not fear, not anger and no surprise.

     It wasn't a surprise, anyway.  I knew he was going to pull the trigger.  You know how some people will recognize that something is about to happen just before it actually does?  That's how it was when Jeremy shot me.  I knew it was coming.  I knew there wasn't a damned thing I could do about it.  The only thing I managed to do was put my hands up, palms forward, thinking in some wierd way that I could ward off the bullet.  Funny what one tries when faced with instant death.

     I remember the bore of the gun.  My eyes seemed to zero in on it.  It grew bigger and bigger in the milliseconds before the hammer hit the bullets' charging pin and the .44 caliber chunk of metal exploded through the barrel and straight through my heart.  Based upon what I knew about guns, I knew that the projectile would enter my chest leaving a hole about the size of a dime.  I knew that afer bursting my heart, it would exit my back through a hole the size of a large man's fist.

     I don't recall being thrown against the wall by the power of the shot.  I don't remember sliding down the wall to end up in a heap on the floor.  I saw myself  slumped over, legs straight out, arms akimbo, chin on my chest as if I was trying to look through the hole in it.  In fact, I looked like a raggedy Ann doll thrown against the wall.

     I saw my physical self from the ceiling.  The Point-of-View, if you will.  Time is irrelevant in this case.  I don't know how much time might have passed between being shot and seeing the entire scene from the ceiling.  Vaguely, the thought that my body was dead and my soul was floating above, observing with complete detachment, the aftermath of the shooting crossed my mind.  Does one retain a "mind" after death?  Apparently so.  Even as I record this from...wherever it is...I'm thinking; ergo, the spirit retains mental function.

     Lisa screamed her **** head off.  I mean she was totally hysterical.  She must have started her tantrum the minute Jeremy burst into the room, discovering the two of us in bed.  Funny, her screams didn't compute until afterwards.  I jumped from the bed, facing Jeremy and the rest...well, he shot me without the slightest hesitation.  No snarling words of recrimination, no accusation.  He simply shot me.

     Lisa is such a wuss.  Totally submissive to me and anyone else that knew how to turn her on.  That's what attracted her to me in the first place.  Her submissiveness.  Her willingness to do anything I wanted her to do.  She'd eagerly go down on me for as long as I wanted.  She reveled in my strength and aggressiveness as I held her face in my crotch and humped her tongue.  She spread her soft white legs and took it as hard as I wanted to give it to her, too.  Either hole, didn't matter.  Size didn't matter, either; she craved them all.

     Watching from above, I knew that Jeremy wouldn't shoot her.  He was after me and only me.  He knew that Lisa was just my toy.  He hated me for that, though.  Not just Lisa...the other's, too.  I figured he knew about my cheating on him and as long as I didn't flaunt it in his face - didn't care.  Boy, was I wrong!  He knew about my flings and apparently, it was eating him up until he finally snapped.  Why didn't he approach me with his knowledge, with his outrage before?  No idea.  Even now, I have no clue why he suddenly decided to kill me.

     If any of my playthings had been men, he might have said something sooner.  Or killed me sooner.  Maybe he thought I would bring one of them home for the both of us to play with.  Whatever his thinking, it was all over now, baby blue.  He'd killed me and I watched the story evolve from the ceiling of Lisa's damned bedroom.