I sobbed—great, racking sobs—until anger pushed its way to the surface. With the anger came the contents of my stomach, fortunately just a glass of wine and some nosh. Finger foods for polite, if strained, conversation. ‘You knew better,’ I scolded myself, lifting my bloodshot eyes to the mirror as I spat into the sink. Every fiber of my being had told me not to go there, that naught good could come of it. I did it anyway—because he wanted it and I wanted to please him. Simple, really. The reason why he wanted it was not lost on me, though. It added to my anger. Packing wouldn’t have taken nearly as long if not interrupted several times by dry heaves. I saw his eyes as I squeezed my own closed. Not the eyes I cherished—the ones that studied me with a mixture of amazement and adoration—but the placating, angst-filled eyes. The pleading eyes. I never wanted to see those eyes again. I heard his voice as I ran the tap water to wash my face. Not the voice I cherished—the one that promised. He couldn’t tell that it was two of the chunks of rock.At least he seems to have enough brains to know that I could easily have pulled a gun.I watched the other two ignore the memo. One pulled out a butterfly knife and made a big production about flipping it open to expose the blade. I let the thug do his show before throwing the first chunk of concrete right at his hand, the one holding the knife. I missed a bit. In the time it took to take aim and throw at him, his hand moved down slightly, so it hit where the bones of his forearm and wrist meet. I didn’t need the place in my head to know that the chunk, thrown at speeds better than professional baseball pitchers can throw, broke his arm and wrist.That knife has a halfway decent type of steel to ring like that when it hit the ground.A quick look behind me and the one that had started following me was now backing up toward the doorway he exited.His fellow thug decided that he needed to escalate matters and pulled a gun. This time my.
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