It was a movie, an action adventure, the sort of movie Jaime loved, and he was in it.

He was the co-star, the super villain.

Patty had helped him put together the imagined costume of a deranged killer, coveralls

and gloves, and creepy nylon stocking mask.

And she, the true star, played the victim to the hilt.

So committed to the role she'd created she even cut her own arm, and with blood dripping

everywhere she barricaded herself in the bathroom, she held tightly in her good hand, the

perfect prop, a real gun to complete the authenticity of the fiction she'd arranged.

Too bad there wasn't a camera to focus on her wild eyes, her pretended terror.

She pointed the gun straight at Jaime and cocked the hammer.

Uh-oh.

I said, Patty, and she goes boom one time.

And I guess the first shot went through my arm, which I didn't know because of the shock.

She fires again and it hits me in the collarbone area and it knocks me to the ground.

And I'm on the ground and I'm crying, Patty, Patty.

What are you doing?

It's me.

Stop this.

Why are you killing me?

Stop this.

It's me.

And Patty responded by shooting him again.

...