"I Have No Place to Live"

I have no place to live. I have no place to live. I can't believe I am in this mess in my 70s, but here I am: I have no place to live.

Ever since my husband died 20 years ago and my grownup kids left the state for other places, I lived on my own. Grief wouldn't let me go and after I retired from my job I had trouble paying my mortgage. But I'm not an alcoholic, never was, never will be. I know my limits.

Last week, my house was foreclosed on and the bank evicted me. I have no place to live now.

But she does. She lives with our 98-year-old father now, pretending to be be his caretaker. With the care she provides, she'd soon become an undertaker.

Growing up, we were joined at the hip. Irish twins, we were inseparable. We even went to school the same year, as our mom decided that it would be better for both of us.

But then I grew up and got married first, and she never did. Never even had a steady boyfriend for longer than a couple of months, so picky she was.

When my kids came along, she helped out a lot. Kinda inserted herself into my family. It is only now that I understand she was jealous of me and my husband and how happy we were. But at the time I didn't mind.

As an older sister, she was their favorite. I mean mom and dad's. They always thought she was more responsible and serious than I am. Well, the joke's on them as she never settled down and was globe-trotting on her American Red Cross assignments. Never had a house of her own, either.

When mom died about 15 years ago, she just moved in with our father. He seemed to be happy, but he just didn't want to be alone, I'm sure.

Last week, when I was kicked out of my house, I begged them to let me live with them. I must admit I was a little tipsy when I came to visit. They both said NO. I can't have that. I can't stay on the streets much longer, that kind of life is not for me. Not at my age.

So, tonight this all will be resolved. If I can't live with them, I won't live. Period.

I enter the house through the backyard carefully, not to make noise. She is sitting on the couch, watching TV. Father must be upstairs already, it's way past his bedtime.

I knock something off the counter as I move through the kitchen. Loud. I'm not as agile as used to be. She hears the noise and turns around, following me with her eyes, "What are you doing here?" Loud.

I stand in front of TV and ask her for the last time, keeping my hands behind my back, "May I please live in our childhood home?"

"No! No! NO! We don't want you here!" As she yells, father rolls out of the bedroom in his wheelchair. Well, let him watch, she is his favorite after all.

I point the gun at her and shoot her in the chest. Oh that priceless look of horror on her face as she slumps on the couch!

The last thing I see are my father's wide-open eyes and trembling lips. I can't hear what he mumbles. "Don't worry, old man, I'll leave you to live with this," I think as I put the gun to my temple and pull the trigger. He goes dark...

Author's note: Inspired by a true murder-suicide story in Georgia.