Drabble, 100 words
Breath rasping with the agony of what she was about to do, the woman pressed the object of her hope to the rough bloodstained stone. Drawing a cocked pistol, she held the trembling barrel to her target. This dream had become a dagger in her heart that she could no longer live with. At least if it were dead, she would no longer have to bear the pain of keeping a living sacrifice on the altar, would she?
But as eyes met hers, she wavered. For how could she kill in cold blood a dream that bore a human face?