The Beginning of the End

“911, what’s the emergency?” a chipper operator answered the call.

“I would like to report a double homicide.”

“Excuse me, but did you say you’re calling to report a double homicide?” the operator asked.

“Yes! Two people are dead,” I said calmly.

“What’s your location?”

“I’m at the Dell Hotel in room 616,” I answered.

“Okay, stay calm. Police and emergency medical units have been dispatched. Help is on the way.” The operator sounded alarmed. “Are you in any danger?”

“No. Not anymore,” I replied, feeling the safest I’d felt in a very long time.

“Is the assailant still on the premises? Is he or she nearby?”

“Yes, she’s here. As a matter of fact, she’s so close I can touch her,” I said while placing the palm of my hand against the mirror.

“I’m going to stay on the phone with you until help arrives,” the operator conveyed.

“Help better get here fast before there’s one more body added to the number.” Dropping the phone into the sink, I placed the gun to my head, prepared to take what was left of my existence.

It seemed like just yesterday when I was popping bottles and tags without a care in the world. Today, here I was contemplating suicide. I had everything, or at least I thought I did, until reality showed me that fame didn’t come easy. The life of a celebrity wife is supposed to be all glitz and glamour. With red carpets, black cards, and tons of green money, who wouldn’t want to be on the A-list? However, when the lights dim and the paparazzi fade, living life in the fab lane comes with a price. Some of us pay severely for our membership in the Rich Wives Association. Don’t believe? Here’s our story.