BROKEN NAILS
Ryan
Dust kicks up behind the pickup as it pulls away from the side of the road. I watch my ride leave, thankful there are still people stupid enough to pick up hitchhikers, and turn toward the road the crack house is on. My hair’s knotted into a messy bun, the lengths with the blood tucked underneath those without. A quick shower using a rest-stop basin, plus a makeshift bandage for my shoulder made out of sanitary pads and duct tape I stole from a gas station, and Farmer Joe was happy to oblige. Shit, I don’t even remember what his name actually was, let alone what the hell we spoke about on the ride here. It’s kind of hard to focus on conversation when your head is preoccupied with the replays of your first kills.
I pop another couple of Advil from the pack I also stole from the station, and rub the growing bruises on my neck. I expected to go into shock. I totally predicted I’d shake until my teeth chattered from the gravity of what I’d done. What I didn’t expect was to be so damn comfortable bringing crude justice to those who deserved it that I’d be whistling a tune while I walked toward the final showdown. But when the moon’s creating such a spectacular artwork out of the shadows it casts through a line of trees, it’s kind of hard not to appreciate the beauty of life—of being alive.
A couple of ragged men walk toward me several doors from the crack house. There’s no need to try and guess where they’ve come from. Neither of them stare at me long enough to be able to give a positive I.D. if questioned; both are too preoccupied looking inconspicuous themselves as they clutch their baggies of goods tightly in their pockets.
I round the gate into the property and pause for a second to look it over. Give the grass a trim, pop a few plants in, and nobody would believe what goes down here. To passers-by, the house is just another suburban home in a quiet suburban street. In a way, it’s terrifying how well this subculture blended in around here. The majority of people in this area wouldn’t have a clue that their neighbors imported, cut, and sold drugs.
No time like the present.
Fingering the gun tucked in the front of my jeans, I rue the fact I never had time to search out more bullets. The damn things were probably at arm’s length in the bedside drawer, but that fifteen seconds could have been the difference between me standing here now, or sitting in a holding cell with a truckload of evidence against me—a dead girl. Still, I brought the weapon along anyway as it might yet prove useful as a scare tactic.
I tuck my T-shirt behind the gun to make it clear I’m not fucking around and walk up to the front door. I could sneak around under windows, go all Hollywood-style on this, but I’m not here to waste time. I have no bullets and an unknown number of people in the house, but I also have the ability to bluff, and the fact that half the people will probably be smashed off their heads is on my side.
I open the front door and pass a girl leaning on the hallway wall without issue. The junkie’s eyes were that far rolled back in her head, I’d be surprised if she knew if it were a woman or a man that walked by. A skinny guy is in the kitchen cutting a brick down into eights, weighing each package out meticulously on a set of scales to his right. He glances up at me, down at the piece, and goes right on back to doing what he was as if I’m no threat. Perks of being a familiar face.
Eddie’s right where I expect him to be—last door on the left, in his crash pad. The bedroom’s technically his holiday home—where the old guy comes when he wants time out from the rigors of being a drug boss, which isn’t all that often. When an asshole like him enjoys the misery and suffering he spreads like a virus through the community, he doesn’t often need a stress break.
I pull the gun out of my jeans and step into the room. He lifts his head from where he’s lying on the bed, shirt off, exposing one of the now bandaged wounds I gave him. “Took your time.”
“Thought you may as well get your money’s worth from the doctor you paid to do a house visit,” I say, gesturing to the medicines on the nightstand with the gun. “What did it cost you?”
“Too much, if you’re goin’ to render it all useless,” he sneers.
“What’s the matter? Feeling your age?” I ask, my cockiness growing the more I realize just how worn out and beaten down he is.
“Feelin’ brave?” he counters. He pulls in a deep breath, wincing as he shifts his leg. “Tell me, Ryan, what’s the plan?”
“It’s pretty simple, really. It involves you, me, and a gun.”
He laughs, hoisting himself up to sit with great difficulty. “You never suspect the lookers,” he says. “Should have known by now the prettier they are, the more of a chip on their shoulder they ’ave.”
“More of a boulder, really,” I say with a shrug, “and you put it there.”
He pats the side of the bed, urging me to sit down as if we’re some happy fucking family. “Come rest a while, sweetheart. Tell me what exactly it is you expected from me when you started fuckin’ Gunter.”
“I never started fucking anyone,” I bite. “You assholes started taking what you wanted without asking. I just learnt how to live with it.”
“And here I was being a gentleman by lettin’ Gunter keep you.” He shakes his head, tsking under his breath. “Should ’ave thrown chivalry out the window and taken what I could, when I could.” He laughs, gesturing to himself. “Hardly in the state to now, am I love?”
“You fucking disgust me.”
“And you irritate the fuck outta me, sweetheart.” His eyes narrow on me, his nostrils flaring. The bastard wants to hurt me, and it’s tearing him apart that he physically can’t.
I approach the bed slowly, and climb up to kneel at his feet. His chest heaves with the bridled anger. “Any last confessions?”
“Which one you want?” He lifts his top lip, taunting me.
“You’ve got nothing,” I say back, my brows knitting together. “You’re so full of shit.”
“Guess you’ll never know for sure then, love.” He pulls his shoulders back, opening out his chest. “Just make sure you get it on target, eh? Can’t be assed starin’ at your traitorous face for an age while I bleed out.”
He honestly thinks he’s getting it that easy? I might be bluffing when it comes to using the gun, but I’ve got a thousand other ideas on how to kill him. I back off the bed and turn to leave the room, much to his confusion.
“What you doin’ now?”
“Improvising. I’m apparently pretty good at that.” I head down to the kitchen, walk past the guy still packaging as I stash the gun back in my waistband, and pick up the entire knife block—all ten blades. The guy gives me a bored onceover before getting back to work, leaving me to walk out with my bounty uncontested.
I reenter Eddie’s room and set it down on the tallboy opposite the end of the bed. His eyebrow quirks up as he looks between the knife block and me.
“Interesting.”
“Should be, yeah,” I agree. “Where would you like to start?”
“What you mean?” He wriggles himself a little taller, frowning.
“You told me you were going to carve me up from the inside out, so I thought I could return the sentiment, do the same. But you know what? It gave me another idea. Why be like you, when I can be like my father?”
He glowers at me, shaking his head slowly. “Figured that out, did ya? You even know what symbols he uses?”
I dip my head, smiling out from under my lashes. “Again, I’ll improvise.”
He squirms as I pull the first blade out—a long, thin boning knife. “Lost it,” he mumbles. “You’ve gone stone-cold mad.”
“Why, Alice, all the best people are.” I snatch a hold on his ankle and place the tip to the fleshy side of his calf. “Should I start here?”