Page 133 of They Are Mine

I’m about to commit a small, harmless, completely necessary act of violence.

That’s no reason to look like a hobo.

I swing by the local chain store, because even criminals have errands.

And Jesus Christ.

There’s a shocking amount of people here at this hour.

And every single one of them looks like they crawled out of a shallow grave.

What the fuck is happening in this town?

I swear to God, I just saw a grown man in a trench coat and pajama pants buying only mustard.

Only. Mustard.

I move fast.

I need something scary but reasonable.

A tire iron? Gross. It smells like metal and regret.

A knife? Too messy. Too personal.

And then?

As if guided by fate, I see it.

The perfect weapon.

Pink. Shiny.

A bat.

I pick it up, test the weight, give it a little swing.

It’s light, but effective.

If I swing hard enough, Tammy will get the point.

I toss a single glove in my cart too.

Not because I need it. But because it feels weird to buy just a bat.

Plus, they have one in pink.

A coordinated crime? Aesthetic violence?

Yes, please.

I don’t stop to browse. I refuse to be the kind of woman who gets distracted by discount candles while gearing up for a break-and-enter intimidation session.

I check out, get in my car, and drive to Tammy’s little shithole.

Her lights are on.

She’s awake.

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