It was three years ago today that we just happened to take the same bus, and a short time later, I shot you in the chest. I was with my family, taking a bus ride to the library, thinking about Chocolati dark chocolate truffles, and you were with a friend. My family and I got off the bus because you were being a jerk to us—whether it was because we are female, because we are lesbian, because we are nothing more than a family of fags to you, the “why” really doesn’t matter. I thought you stayed on the bus. But I heard you scream “bitch” as I stood at a stoplight, and so I turned around, and you were running toward me. I warned you that I was armed, and you didn’t want to listen. I remember the muffled sound of my gun going off and your shoulders curling in from the impact. I remember us looking at each other and your face shifting from rage to utter fear as you struggled to draw in a breath but couldn’t. You went down to the ground so slowly, and we kept eye contact the whole time….
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