Black Death
She stared down at her perfectly red-painted toes as they sunk into the fresh-laid white carpet. The crimson amongst the pallid plush looked like popped arteries.
Hunger gnawed at her stomach. She’d spent the whole day shopping and came home with bags filled with designer clothes, most of which would probably remain in her closet, unworn. Her feet ached, her throat was parched, and her eyes throbbed dully. She went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of red. A wine he had introduced her to—Italian Bordeaux. Expensive and easy on the palate. She took a sip and glided to the balcony, though tonight it didn’t seem to have the same taste. It was bitter, as if somehow the wine had morphed its taste to match her mood.
She peered down into the dreary darkness. The cars droned to and fro like a legion of mourners at a wake. People scurried up the street, heads down, hunched into themselves to shelter from the bitter wind. Windows sparkled dimly from the high-rise concrete graveyard, like ravenous mouths of light. Shadowed figures moved across their tongues.
Across the road, five stories up, the couple had their blinds open . . . again. It allowed for an easy view into theirkitchen, lounge, and bedroom. They were in the kitchen; she was chopping up salad while he poured two glasses of wine. Newlyweds, their affection for each other was yet to dwindle. It would; it always did. The male was rather handsome, with brown hair and hefty muscles, but he wasn’t tall—a shame. He moved behind his wife. She was a pretty blond, tanned and as fit looking. He wrapped his arms around her stomach and pulled her into his body. She arched her head back as his lips skittered over her neck, then she reached behind for his groin.
Emptiness opened up like a bottomless cavity inside her chest.
She was in a city filled with a thousand lights, and a thousand possibilities sparkled in the distance—elusive fragments of lost dreams, visible, but beyond her grasp.
She was stunning, intelligent, and wealthy. She’d spent years traveling to various parts of the world. Partied until the late hours of dawn, watched the sunrise over the balmy Maldives, and witnessed the Aurora Australis shine over the Antarctic night skies. Climbed the Eiffel Tower, smoked weed in Amsterdam, danced in the streets of Brazil. All of which should make for a happy life, and yet . . .
She took another sip of the wine, and its bitter blend vexed her. She stared into the red liquid like it was a witch’s cauldron. A vine of dread seemed to snake its way through the bloody concoction. It foretold a future of bitterness, loneliness, and misery. How many times had she felt this way? How many more times would she feel this way?
Her fingers tightened around the glass. Anger thrummed silently through her veins, drowning the pain with bitterness and wrath. That bastard lived his life like fucking royalty, and she was stuck in a shitty apartment, in a shitty city, all because of him.
Anger had always been an issue for her. As a much younger girl, her parents had insisted she go to therapy in a fatuous attempt to curtail her rage.
“When you feel the anger rise, take deep, calming breaths,” the therapist had said. “Count to ten,” he’d said. “Go for a walk,” he’d said. The entire time he’d spoken to her like she was fucking five. Sitting in his tweed chair with his legs crossed, in a cheap gray suit. Even his jacket had been too big, the shoulder pads too wide for his scrawny shoulders. He’d probably picked it up from the local charity shop. He’d written down everything she’d said. Moron.
The session had ended when she’d punched him in the face. Her parents had gotten a new therapist after that. She’d quit after the first session. After the first five minutes to be exact—when the therapist had run terrified from the office.
She’d followed behind with a smug grin to meet the judgement of two disappointed parents. They hadn’t sent her to therapy again.
The wind twisted and changed direction, hammering against her face as if its frozen fingers were serving to lash sense into her joyless mood. It was appalling to stand again on the balcony, feeling as she’d done a thousand times before. She’d retreated at his insistence. Given up and left because of him.
Don’t get angry, get even.
It was cliché, like, “Revenge is a dish best served cold.” There was a banal patheticness in both thoughts.
Nonetheless, either worked.
She wasn’t going to sit back anymore and watch him flourish while she withered and died slowly inside. He was a cunning bastard, so she wouldn’t be able to do it on her own, but she would find a way. Lots of ways if she had to. They always had a weakness, and she would find his.
She moved the glass to her lips, took a sip, and now the bitterness became a palatable mnemonic forecast. She watched as the two haunting shadows entwined over the kitchen table.
A plan began to form to bring the bastard down.
Chapter 13
Eeny Meeny
Iwalked through the bar doors ten minutes early to start my first shift. A burst of rambunctious laughter came from a group of women. A couple of patrons sat perched, staring blankly at the bar like they expected some kind of answer to arise from the wooden grain. A few tables of locals watched me walk in like I was a strange creature from a faraway land.
The manager was standing at the end of the bar wiping down the bar top.
“Hi,” I said brightly, too brightly, smiling with the mechanical exaggeration of a clown.
She raised her head and grazed her eyes over me, no warmth on her features. “Put your bag out the back, then you can start at this end of the bar. Grace is working at the other end, and you share patrons in the middle, got it?”
Nodding, I glanced at the computer screen on the other side of the counter. It was the same point-of-sale software we used in Ohio. I breathed a sigh of relief at not having to ask how to use it.
“This way.” The manager turned and walked out from behind the bar, opening the door she’d disappeared through yesterday. I followed her out.
“Put your bag anywhere in here.” She waved her hand around. “Staff toilets are through there.” She pointed to the back of the room. “Use what you want in here, but donottouch my desk.” Her desk was as neat as a pin and sparkling clean, with a laptop positioned perfectly straight in the middle. Two trays sat at the back with a few sheets of paper and unopened envelopes on them.
