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The light from a full October moon filtered through the open window beside Rose Ellis’s bed. The eighty-four-year-old woman stared thoughtfully into the night sky then closed her eyes in a half-hearted attempt to block out the peaceful image. Tears rolled off her tormented face onto the pillow underneath her head. The evening was calm and still, but her emotions were not. The sheets and blankets that once neatly covered her bed were crumpled and some were lying on the floor. Rose was restless, troubled. “Don‘t worry,” she whispered to herself, “I know what must be done.”
The Belmont Rest Home in San Francisco where Rose had just moved was a sparsely decorated, sterile environment—a stark contrast to the parlor houses she had furnished and managed in her younger years. Rose’s eighty-two-year-old sister, Buena, was lying in a bed a few feet away from her. Buena had lived with Rose her entire life. She wasn’t any more accustomed to her homogenized surroundings than Rose, but she had managed to fall asleep. Rose was grateful for that. Buena was developmentally disabled and seemed least harassed by the challenges of life when she slept.
As Rose watched her sister’s slow, steady breathing she thought back to the promise she had made her father to take care of Buena. On November 11, 1918, news that the Ellis girls’ father had died sent Buena into shock. Doctors performed a lobotomy on the distressed woman, which left her brain damaged. Rose pledged to care for her only living relative for the rest of her life.
Old age, lack of funds and limited options forced Rose to commit herself and Buena to the rest home. Although it was not an ideal situation, Rose was resigned to the living conditions. When doctors informed her that she had little time to live she decided to reevaluate the arrangement. The alternative she arrived at was extreme but necessary. It weighed heavily on her heart.
Lifting herself out of her bed, Rose shuffled over to a large bureau and slowly opened the top drawer. She removed a .38 caliber, nickel-plated revolver hidden under a stack of camisoles. She opened the gun and loaded two bullets into the chamber. Taking a deep breath she made her way to Buena’s bed, knelt down and kissed her on the cheek. Using all the strength in both her aged hands she pulled the hammer back and held the weapon to her sister’s ear. A shot rang out and Buena was gone.
Tears streamed down Rose’s face as she cocked the gun again and pressed it to her own temple. “See you soon, my darling sister,” she whispered to Buena’s lifeless form. The final shot was fired. Rose fell in a heap on the floor, the smoking gun still clutched in her hand.
To learn more about soiled doves like Rose Ellis read An Open Secret