There was always a demeanor about me that got me out of things. When we were younger, Kelly, my best friend, would always get in trouble for whatever I did. My angel face was my passport out of consequence.
This was it though, no going back and the angel facade now bordered demonic. I hide away in the little trinket shop, praying I can blend in with the mass of other women. I do so, with an almost-unrealistic perfection. My face never betrays me, my stance never falters. I am a young woman looking at trinkets, there is no harm I could ever cause anyone.
The more you believe it, the more you become it.
Three officers with pistols slip into the store as the light dingding! of the bell announces their arrival. Someone screams, another knocks over a rack of dresses. There are marbles, porcelain figures and all manner of things strewn across the floor. The officers yell over the ruckus, trying to calm everyone down.
I seize my chance and slip out the back door of the tiny shop. I keep my hand on my little purse, making sure I never drop my own shiny, black pistol.
I am confident of this; they will never find out who killed Kelly Notingham.
Holy Guacamole! It's like a ghost town around here! Did we kill off our contributors as well as a character or two?
ReplyDeleteThere was always a demeanor about me that got me out of things. When we were younger, Kelly, my best friend, would always get in trouble for whatever I did. My angel face was my passport out of consequence.
ReplyDeleteThis was it though, no going back and the angel facade now bordered demonic. I hide away in the little trinket shop, praying I can blend in with the mass of other women. I do so, with an almost-unrealistic perfection. My face never betrays me, my stance never falters. I am a young woman looking at trinkets, there is no harm I could ever cause anyone.
The more you believe it, the more you become it.
Three officers with pistols slip into the store as the light dingding! of the bell announces their arrival. Someone screams, another knocks over a rack of dresses. There are marbles, porcelain figures and all manner of things strewn across the floor. The officers yell over the ruckus, trying to calm everyone down.
I seize my chance and slip out the back door of the tiny shop. I keep my hand on my little purse, making sure I never drop my own shiny, black pistol.
I am confident of this; they will never find out who killed Kelly Notingham.