She rescued the gun from the glove compartment and leaned forward, intent on keeping sharp.
It would’ve been easy to give up waiting for him to leave the warehouse after his all-night poker game in there. It would’ve been easy to say, Fuck it, I’ll do this another day. It would’ve been easy to try to pretend it never happened, those things he did to her younger sister.
But they did happen. And he was going to pay for them. And not through the slow-grinding gears of the justice system that offered no promises.
Cigarette after cigarette helped her keep sharp, her fingers trembling on the small rods of tobacco that her sister used to call cancer nails, and reminded her that they were going to eventually kill her.
But we’re all going to die eventually, she thought as she looked at the gun in her other hand. Some sooner than others.
She looked at the trembling cigarette and surveyed her emotions: nervous, anger, excitement. It was not a surprise to realize excitement huddled in there, for she hadn’t liked her sister’s boyfriend from the start.
And now it was time to make him pay. Once that warehouse door swung open, he was going to be momentarily blinded by the brilliant sunshine of the hot day. And in that blindness, she was going to open the car door, stand, and shoot him.
She reminded herself that she should hold the gun in both hands and rest them on the roof of the car. Didn’t want these trembling fingers to cause the bullets to miss him.
The woman in the photo is a model, and by pairing the photo with the story, it is not meant to imply her actions. This is a fictional story, and any resemblance between its characters with persons living or dead is purely coincidental. The photo is used under the non-commercial Creative Commons license. Click on the image to jump to the photographer’s Flickr page.