Dust covers every surface, but the real goldmine is all the clothing still hanging on the moving racks behind the counter.
I stuff the wallet and cash into the pocket of an old suit, moving slowly and carefully so I don't disturb the dust, leaving everything just the way I found it.
The bathroom, already prepared for just this moment, houses supplies to get all the blood off of my skin, and I spend far too long scrubbing the evidence from my fingers and neck, thanking the universe that I had the forethought to paint my nails the color of old blood just in case any got beneath them.
Then I find the fresh and clean coat I stashed here just in case. I considered a change of clothes, but that would have left me carrying around bloody garments for the next few hours or leaving them here and hoping they weren't found.
The coat was the best option. It's longer than my dress and fitted and pretty enough that it won't look like I'm some psychopath walking around in a trench coat.
But putting it on makes my stomach roll again, the blood on my dress sticking to my skin.
Taking a deep breath, I dig a peppermint out of my pocket, plopping it in my mouth to help with the nausea.
Lastly, I scrub the knife clean, sheathing it and inserting it back into its home in my hair.
Looking in the mirror, I see a monster looking back at me.
While the person there looks like me, withbrown eyes, white blonde hair, androse gold double nostril piercings, there's no denying that she's not the person she used to be.
Barely a person at all.
What kind of human can take comfort in murder like the person looking back at me does?
Well, maybe murder isn't the right word.
Execution is a better one.
They both deserved what they got.
My step-dad and this man do more for this world dead than they ever could alive.
Alive, all they were capable of was causing pain and sorrow.
Now, neither of them can hurt anyone ever again.
I wonder to myself if I should be feeling worse. If something is wrong with me because I can shut off any sense of morality when it comes to these fucking animals.
Nah.
They sucked in life, and now they're in Hell where they belong.
Now on to step three.
The most boring, but arguably the most important.
I need a useful idiot to hit on me for the next few hours at the bar.
That pretty little blonde smells all wrong.
I noticed it the moment she walked in. A woman that lovely? Her blood should smell soft and sugary, perhaps like candied rose blossoms, to match the sweet color in her cheeks. Her eyes had locked on mine when she arrived, her skin blooming pink before her gaze darted away.
But it wasn't just me she refused eye contact with, otherwise I might take that personally. No, she couldn't keep her eyes fixated in one placefor longer than a few seconds or even bring herself to look at the bartender as she ordered her first, second, or third cocktail.
The only place her eyes seemed drawn to was the door. Every few minutes, every single time it swung open, she warily glanced at the dark wood.
Was she waiting for someone?
Unlikely.
