There Is No Johnny

Johnny … but with Russell.
Johnny, hand visibly shaking, tears of rage running down his cheeks yet masked by the rain pelting his face, lifted the big semi-auto up and pushed the muzzle of the gun into the stringy wet hair of his wife. Thumbing the hammer back—he knew a round was in the firing chamber—a finger curled around the trigger of the weapon. And …
He tried. The gun shook in his hand. The kneeling woman cried loudly. He tried. He groaned, tears and rain almost making him blind. And he tried.
Tried to squeeze the trigger. Tried to fulfill the raging desire to kill.
He tried.
And then, with a muffled scream, he jerked the weapon away from his wife’s head, lifted it up to point toward the sky, and thumbed the release that ejected the cartridge clip from the butt of the gun. It flew out into the rain and fell into the mud at his feet. Yanking the carriage back on the gun, he ejected the lone round in the firing chamber, then angrily dropped the gun

Johnny, hand visibly shaking, tears of rage running down his cheeks yet masked by the rain pelting his

spur-of-the-moment