The street's Sunday-morning empty and bored cats watch her like they know she couldn't get in at the Refuge, her raincoat shiny with all of last night's rain.
She's coming back, carrying a bundle of dead magazines. I knew she'd return. Victims always do. I'll teach her a lesson she'll never forget and afterwards she'll wear her bruises like medals.
I close the door so nobody sees. My fists are twitching, ready.
In the narrow hallway she stands there like a dummy. Then lets the magazines fall to the floor. The gun in her hand has the final word.
Christopher 8 months ago
Ooh! That's my kind of justice! And I love the "bundle of dead magazines." Not sure how a magazine dies (bad circulation?) but I love the phrase all the same.
Drew Martyn 8 months ago
Cheers Christopher. I'm not sure what dead magazines look like either, but thinking about them soaking from the rain and it just seemed to fit :)