Relative Morality

John

“Truth, like morality, is a relative affair; there are no facts, only interpretations.”

—F. Nietzche

Those are the words that come to mind as my wife raises the Smith & Wesson M&P Bodyguard 380 and points it at my chest.

I’m not a gun enthusiast. I only know the model of the weapon because I bought the pink gun for her as a joke. "You can use it for self-defense," I’d said.

Joke’s on me now.

"Did you hear what I said?" Eva shouts, pointing the gun lower this time. "Answer me, or I’ll shoot your dick off."

“W…what was the question?”

Let’s backtrack a bit and think about how we got here in the first place.

I’ve always believed certain things in society make little sense. Religion, politics, sex.

When it comes to religion, I get hung up on proselytizing. Why should anyone have to do their boss’s work for them? And besides, when I want to buy something, I look for it online or go to a store. Why would I let some slimy salesman through my door to sell me overpriced goods? Then, not only do I have to buy the stuff, but I’ve got to give ten percent to the company every month and hit the road selling the stuff too.

That’s the equivalent of paying to work, just so I can sleep in a pew for an hour on Sundays to the tune of shitty music and Father Caiphas’s monotone droning, "God is good. Sex is bad. Masturbation is worse."

Why the fuck would God care where I stick my pecker? Go cure cancer or something instead.

Jesus, it’s just like Eva always says. I’m so damned long winded, even in my own mind.

"Sorry, honey. It’s a little hard to hear anything you say with…uh, a gun pointed at me." It’s still pointed at my little John, which has shrunk so much I can practically feel it in my stomach.

"I said, who the fuck is she?"

She means the woman in the bed behind me—fuck, but I can’t think of her name with a gun pointed at my pecker.

I can’t even follow my own thoughts far back enough to figure out how I got into this situation. She wasn’t supposed to come home for another four hours. Time enough to get off four or five times with—Barbara! That’s her name. Barbara.

"Please don’t shoot me! I didn’t know!" the woman screams. “I don’t want to die!”

“Barbara, just shut up.” I call behind me. The last thing I need is her drawing attention to herself. I feel like a dick shouting at her, though. It’s just the kind of thing you do when you’re sixty percent—no, seventy percent certain you’re going to die.

“Honey, can you please put the gun down? I know you don’t want to kill me. It’s me, baby!” Not the right thing to say, and I know it. Fuck but my brain isn’t working right now.

My wife squeezes the trigger and I swear I can feel the heat of it as the bullet hits the mattress right between my legs. I’d think she missed, but ever since I got her that pink death machine she’s gone to the range three times a week. She says it made her feel like a strong, independent woman.

“So her name is Barbara. I told you that if I caught you cheating again, I’d shoot your fucking balls off.”

Barbara whimpers behind me and I can hear rustling as she pulls the covers over her head. Like if she hid from the boogie man—sorry, boogie person; political correctness is important this decade—then maybe the scary lady with the gun might disappear.

How did I get here again? Right, I’d got interrupted the last time I contemplated the answer to that question.

I wonder if she’d get the death sentence for killing me? The answer to that question is a political one, isn’t it? It would depend on state laws, which, on this matter, depend on politics. Isn’t it interesting that whether or not the government has the right to perform what amounts to a revenge murder, depends exclusively on the sociopolitical climate of the age? With respect to capital punishment, that would be heavily influenced by religion, wouldn’t it?

Politics are all about lying anyway. Whether it’s some rich WASP (White, Anglo-Saxon Protestant) vying for the power to regulate women’s bodies or… Politics is about lying to ourselves too, isn’t it?

“My love, you know I love you.” I am impressed with myself that I was able to say that without my voice quavering. It’s important to remain calm in lethal situations. I heard that somewhere. Maybe in a Stephen King novel.

“John, I swear to God, if you say ‘She doesn’t mean anything’ like you did last time, I’ll—”

“No! No. I won’t say it. I promise.”

“You better say something, damn it.” She has tears in her eyes. Her nose is red and snot is dripping out.

I feel like an asshole. I know I’m an asshole. But I also know that she doesn’t actually have a problem with me. It’s a problem with an idea. And the idea didn’t even come from her. It comes from the time, place, and culture—and maybe money. The practice may be fading, but there are still places in the world where polygamy (and polygyny) are the norm. Men getting multiple wives who flock to him for financial stability. Women marrying a set of brothers because they literally can’t afford to split their inherited land up in three equal parts.

Why are we meant to only be with one person? I love my wife. I really do. But it doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t desire have to do with biology? Doesn’t marriage have to do with the patriarchy needing to keep track of whose sperm went where in order to ensure that when fathers died, it was their trueborn sons who got the money, land, and power—and not the bloke their wives were actually enjoying sex with?

“I’m sorry, Eva.” I don’t know what else to say. “It has nothing to do with you. I just…maybe I’m not built the same way you are.”

I think critically about things and snark Disney constantly for selling women the idea that you’re only good enough if you look like Chris Hemsworth and own a castle—ironic, given that once upon a time if anyone was likely to have a harem it was men with castles. Meanwhile, Eva believes in Truth and regularly reminds me how little I live up to the expectations of her father.

Eva asks me some more things and I answer, though I do so in a detached, “I can’t believe this is happening” kind of way, where everything is surreal and I’m not actually here.

Police sirens wail from outside and I snap back into my body. A sense of relief floods me and I think for a moment that maybe things are going to turn out okay.

Eva

“The truth shall set you free.”

—Jesus Christ

Those were the words that first came to mind when I opened the door and found him there, still writhing over her. His body was slick with sweat and the sounds of her moans were animalistic, raw. She was enjoying it and I could understand why. He was an excellent lover. Just a terrible husband.

He was so handsome when we first met. The perfect balance of boyish charm and bad boy allure. He smelled like cigarettes and baby powder.

I should have known then that it was a bad idea. But when you’re young and stupid, you make bad decisions. My worst decision was believing that a man who left his girlfriend to be with me was never going to do it again.

I fumbled around in my girly purse for the pink gun. It fit so comfortably in my hand now. Not heavy and awkward like it was in the beginning, but sturdy—something I could count on. When I first shot it at the range, I thought: “This must be what it’s like to have a penis.”

It was a stupid memory. Now all I could think of was his cock in her pussy. How wet, how moist. That fucking word.

I walked right up to them. She was just about to cum. I could hear it in the way she squealed and shouted “harder, harder, don’t stop.”

She had her eyes closed and he had his back to me. I could shoot him in the head right now and he wouldn’t even know he died. He’d be so confused when he got to heaven.

No, he’d be so scared when he got to hell. I really did almost pull the trigger. Then I got a good look at her—a really good look. And the only thing I could think was, “she isn’t even prettier than me.”

I wasn’t going to shoot him. Not yet. I needed to know why. But there was no way in hell I was going to wait for her to cum.

“Why are you doing this to me?” It was the first thing I thought of saying. It made me feel weak to ask him that, but I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t even what I wanted to know most.

They were so loud they didn’t even hear me.

Our lovemaking wasn’t like that. I was always reminding him that we couldn’t be loud. We had thin walls. Sex was supposed to be a sacred, private thing. Not something the neighbors stuck their ears on the wall and listened to. Who knew if they…did things while listening to us?

They both started cumming together just as I worked up the nerve to shout at the top of my lungs: “Get off the bed you son of a bitch!”

It ruined their orgasm. They spasmed and twisted and got off each other so fast. His ejaculate even managed to squirt on the floor in front of me. I decided to ignore it.

It took John almost ten seconds to notice I was pointing the gun at him. He had his jeans halfway up and was stammering curses profusely when he finally looked up and saw it. Then he slowly finished pulling the jeans on and sat on the corner of the bed, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.

“Didn’t you hear what I said?” My voice was loud, hard to control. I just wanted to shout, to wail, to cry. But I was so angry. The last part, I whispered: “Answer me, or I swear I’ll shoot your dick off.”

John asked me to repeat the question. I already knew he hadn’t heard me. It just made me so angry. I wanted to see the look on his face. The fear, the despair; the regret. Except, that wasn’t the story his face told.

He was afraid, but not the way I wanted him to. I wanted him to beg. To lose his mind like I was losing mine. I didn’t care what he said. But I still had hope. Somewhere deep inside, I hoped that he could repent and mean it.

“Can you just tell me what she has that I don’t?” It was another question that I felt took power away from me.

My mother once told me that women are always at a disadvantage. Women will be demonized if they are strong willed and be called “bitches.” Men who show the same behavior will be called “motivated,” “stern,” “ambitious.”

Women who have babies often have a hard time losing weight. We get older and the men want younger. We make money and they get insecure.

And men get what they want. They always get what they want. While women—we don’t always get what we want. E just get stuck asking why.

“What you’re doing is a sin. It’s a sin against our family. A sin in God’s eyes. And it hurts. It hurts because I love you and I fucking hate it.”

John looked at me, his head tilting slightly as if he was confused by what I’d just said.

“But I don’t believe in God.”

My jaw dropped. Not only had he just blasphemed, he’d completely ignored what I said—what I felt.

Then the sound of police sirens startled me.

Time seemed to slow. I recognized that feeling. It had happened to me once before during a car crash. Even now, I can recall the incident. Cars twirling through the air in slow motion as they wrecked all around us. But God had protected me that day. Six vehicles totaled all around me, but not one scratch on my car.

It was the same when the gun went off.

I remember the look of relief on his face when I shot him. It was as if in his last moments, he was saying: “It’s alright, honey. I know you didn’t do it on purpose. Don’t let yourself wallow in guilt. I understand. I’m sorry.”

After the trial, I ran into an EMT who was a first responder at the scene. He said that John probably didn’t feel any pain at all. The bullet had gone straight through his heart, and he died in seconds.

John’s face was so serene as he went.

For a while, I wondered if I should feel bad. But every time that thought crossed my mind, I remembered his face—the relief. As if he knew all along that this was where we were headed, and he was ready for it. Maybe we both were.

I pleaded guilty, and the judge reduced the charge to reckless endangerment. My sentence was time served.

John’s face was so serene as he went.

I pleaded guilty, and the judge reduced the charge to a reckless endangerment charge and my sentence was time served. Barbara, the woman who had been there during the accident, had actually testified in my favor. She’d accepted responsibility for her actions. Over the course of the trial, we actually became close.

Barbara is now one of my closest friends.

Now that time has passed, I can smile back on the events of that day and honestly say that it was a blessing.

I walk each day under the clear blue sky and warm sun, basking in gratitude—knowing I step in Jesus’s footprints, cradled in His loving embrace.

God has really been good to me.

Relative Morality

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