In a fit of rage, I had reached for my holster, steadily drawing my revolver and without even stopping to think, I had unloaded a couple of rounds on the unarmed and unsuspecting couple.
I watched vicariously as the blood gushed from the orifices where bullets had pieced their naked, sweaty bodies.
The walls were splattered with blood and my muzzle was still warm, I held my face in my hands and wept uncontrollably at the thought of my actions.
When my anger had finally subsided I felt an air of remorse sweep over me as I began to consider the repercussions that were to follow.
My conscious was urging me to find reprieve in my actions and confess to the murder, but I simply could not.
Their bodies were gracefully perched on top of my wooden bedframe, that of my wife and her lover. She was wearing her favourite shade of lipstick, a very subtle crimson red.
It lacked its usual lustre against her pale face and lips that had turned blue from a lack of circulation and obvious cyanosis.
Her elegant hair, dyed marigold with careless streaks, flowed over her supple breasts. Her complexion, fair and all, was tainted with streams of blood and sweat that ran down her cheeks.
Her lifeless body, drained of her vital essences, lay in front of me in the most provocative position. She had an almost perfect body with the loveliest of imperfections.
I did not care as to what her lover looked like, for I had recognized his license plate and felt that he and the smug look on his face were to blame for this crime of passion.
A million thoughts ravaged my mind as I made haste to dispose of the bodies without alerting any suspicion from the neighbours.
I ran towards the linen cupboards in search of spare bed sheets when something, or rather someone, caught my gaze.
Staring innocently back at me was my daughter, whimpering and cowering in the cupboard; I fear that she had witnessed everything that elapsed in those last crucial seconds.
I knelt down and tried reaching out for her grasp, but I was met with disdain and peril in her eyes.
She whispered the three words that every father wished that they would never hear their child say. It was something very faint and barely audible, but it was a profoundly unsettling sound.
Without a moment to spare I stood back on my feet, took a large breath inwards, and emptied the last bullet of my revolver into my forehead.