stant in All Other Thingsby

  Fakeminsk ([email protected] ; https:///fakeminsk)

  “Friendship is stant in all other things Save in the offid affairs of love: Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues; Let every eye iate for itself And trust no agent.”

  Much Ado About Nothing

  Book One: In HidingPrologue: Not a Woman

  I stand, gun poi his head.

  The weight of the pistol feels fortable in my grip. A few weeks ago, I would’ve sworn to never seen a handgun before--not outside of one of those movies Tom likes and I hate, or in some horrible fever dream. The thought of holding one, let alone firing it, would have left me in terrified hysteribsp; Now the ugly thiles easily in my grip. The feel of the etal is once again familiar: its textured grip, the deadly weight.

  But then, mahings have bee familiar in the past two years: the fsh of glossy pink on the painted nails resting at the pistol’s trigger; the sweep of long blonde hair at the edge of vision; the taste of lipstibsp; The precarious band high arch of stilettos, now fortable. I’ve learo love my breasts, their feel and toud weight—the way they move and the pretty bra that cups them, and even the feel of a man’s hand over them.

  But that empty feeliween my legs? Not that . . . that will never be familiar. Now one of the bastards responsible sits tied to a chair, hands behind his back, face bloodied and back bowed. I stand, gun poi his head. There is beauty to the simplicity of the image. My slender bared shoulder and outstretched arm, a delicate silver bracelet fshing in the flickering half-light of the dirty little room. It is not indecision that causes the tremble in my arm. There is a metre of empty space, and then Tom’s face, bruised eyes squeezed shut in fear. Not for the first time I admire the elegahat reveals itself in the ugliness of violenbsp; After all I’ve endured: finally, revenge.

  The moment he opens his eyes I’ll shoot. I want to see the look in my husband’s eyes o time.

  “Oh, God. Please, no, not this.” His voice pleads and I thrill at the power I hold over him. It’s been so long since I’ve felt powerful. The bastard keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “I’m so—it doesn’t—have to be this way. I’m so sorry.”

  I don’t answer. I imagihat the gun begins to feel heavy. In some ways I’m a lot weaker than I used to be.

  “dy,” he says. “Please.”

  “My name is not dy,” I hiss.

  He takes a deep, shaky breath. “David,” he says.

  “Say it again.” I want to shout but my voice catches in my throat and finally escapes hardly louder than a whisper. This has already gone on for too long, and there isn’t much time. The sound of violeside the room, of other dramas unfolding, lives ending, retributions being paid or earned, favours oaid—steadily grows. “Open your eyes.”

  “David,” he repeats.

  “Look at me!”

  He opens his eyes. He looks straight into me. His eyes are blue but so clear they seem nearly transparent. They are the most alluriure of a very attractive man. A woman could easily lose herself in those gentle depths. I did, once.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says.

  But I am not a woman. I squeeze the trigger.