Click. Silence.

"love you." John finished. But she wasn't on the other end. She didn't hear him.

John quickly put the phone down on the receiver and reached for a box under his bed. He dragged the shoebox into sight, then threw the bed covers off of him. He jogged to his dresser and hastily put on a pair of jeans. Then he went to his closet and grabbed the first shirt his fingers touched. Finally he put his shoes on without socks and without tying them. John knelt by the shoebox he pulled out from under the bed and whipped off the cover. Five bullets were inside; his gun, along with a single, bullet, was missing. "Oh, Jenn." he said as if she could hear him. "Oh, God. No. Don't do this. No." The frantic man left the shoebox where it was and ran for his keys, then the front door.

On his way to their spot John went through seven red lights, three stop signs, and an unfortunate raccoon. He couldn't stop for anything; he had to get to Jennifer. Finally he got to the bottom of the hill. "Their Spot", as they called it, was the area at the top of the hill. It was a make-out spot that the two went to when they were high school sweethearts. They used to skip classes and go to the hill to talk, joke around, and smoke cigarettes. John had fond memories of he and Jenn on the night of their senior prom. They had come up here and lost their virginities to each other. That was the greatest night in both of their lives. But that was in the past. That was in the 80's, twenty-something years ago.

When John reached the top of the hill he saw that Jenn was already there. His gun was under her chin and her finger was on the trigger. "Jenn," he started, not wanting to irk her in any way. "Put down the gun. Come on, don't be stupid."

"  Don't call me stupid! " she screamed in frustrated rage.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry." John reached one hand out and slowly walked towards his girlfriend. "Can I have my gun back, please?"

"No." she said firmly.

"Jenn, why do you want to do this? You have me. I can help you. I love you. You know that, right?"

"I know." she said in a soft voice. "I've always known." Jennifer closed her eyes. John assumed she was remembering happier times.

For a minute or two there was a long, awkward silence. Finally, it was broken. "John?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you, too." Jenn said with her eyes still closed. Even though her finger hadn't moved from the trigger, John breathed in a sigh of relief. She said that she knew her loved her. She said that she loved him back. She wasn't going to do it. She  really wasn't. Everything was going to be okay. Everything was going to be fine. Everything was going to be…

…covered in blood. John ran to his fallen lover and cradled her bleeding head in his hands. He sat there and cried. He cried for a long time.

The next morning John solemnly ate his cereal and toast for breakfast. The two or three hours following to three a.m. incident was spent mourning, sending e-mails and faxes (John thought it would be most inconsiderate to wake people up at four in the morning with news like this.), and answering a myriad questions from the police. He finished his meal and went to his bedroom. He sat on his bed and pulled the shoebox out from under his bed and lay it on his lap.

For the next few minutes John sat and cradled the revolver in his hands. The weapon was the way he usually had it; loaded, hammer cocked, ready to use, albeit minus one slug. He sat there with a lump in his throat as he remembered the nightmare that had occurred earlier this morning. He should lose the cursed thing. Throw it out, sell it, give it to the seven year old next door, just do  anything to get rid of it.

It was 6:30 a.m. If anyone on John's street had been awake and listening closely, or not so closely for that matter, they would've heard a single gunshot ring out from John McLeon's bedroom window.