Madonna in a Fur Coat

by Sabahattin Ali

How splendid it would be to call her to the telephone just before she was to take the stage at the Atlantic and (after I had asked her forgiveness for having disturbed her and bade her farewell) pump a bullet into my head, while she listened at the other end! Upon hearing this deadly sound, she would pause, uncomprehending, before madly screaming, “Raif! Raif!” into the receiver. And if, by chance, I happened to hear her cries as I lay there on the ground, taking my last breath, I would die smiling. With no idea of my whereabouts, she would flail about in desperation, too distracted to call the police, and when, the next day, as she leafed through the papers with trembling hands, reading the details of this mysterious tragedy, she would seize up with remorse and regret, knowing she would never be able to forget me, now that I had bound myself to her memory in blood.

Me when someone upsets me so i have to die to make them feel bad