Elm street

Elm Street, Dallas, Texas.

Elm street

Sitting on the leather-upholstered backseat of the Lincoln convertible, he was smiling. The sun was warm on his face and a light breeze blew through his hair. His wife sat on his left, radiant in her pink Chanel suit, dazzling all admirers with her Cadillac smile. At this moment in time, the man must have felt deeply loved, all the more so by the crowd which was acclaiming him. The first bullet hit him in the throat. The shock and burning sensation left him speechless. The terrible sound of the impact, a dry snap, made his wife jump. She saw him put his hand to his throat, and so leaned towards him, unable to understand; he tried to speak, but no sound escaped his lips. She put her hands over his, over those beautiful masculine hands which had caressed her body, as well as that of Marilyn, and Marlene and many others, these hands which were now covered in frothy blood. The second bullet struck him square in the head and with this image, all was lost to this last vision of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy.