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 18 days 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 18 days 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 :)