There was no way out. If I ran, my mom died. If I tried to bring her with me, we’d both get caught, and we’d both die. If I stayed, I was dead sooner or later.
By the time four o’clock rolled around and I had three hours until closing, the realization hit me like a punch to the gut.
I had to kill him.
There was no other option.
If I killed Owain, there’d be nobody to hunt me. Maybe his men might take it up, but I had a feeling they’d be too busy fighting with each other to try and avenge their leader. I could be wrong about that, but I didn’t see any other options.
I had to kill him. And I had to do it today, this evening, right at seven, right at closing. Otherwise I’d never do it.
I sat down in the back on the computer chair and stared at the shelving racks and the shirts in neat piles. My heart beat so fast I felt like I might hyperventilate and pass out. Sweat beaded along my back.
I never killed anyone before. I’d never been in a fight. Killing a man, even a man like Owain, felt horrible. It felt like the end of the world, like the end of myself.
But I had to do it. I had to do it if I wanted to survive and if I wanted to save my mother.
I needed a weapon. My eyes scanned the room. Owain was way bigger and stronger. Attacking him like I did that morning wouldn’t work. I needed an edge.
The racks. They were made of long metal tubes. I remembered how heavy they were from when I built them with Jason all those long months ago.
I walked to the nearest one, cleared off the shirts, and began to take it apart. I only needed to remove the top most shelf since I only needed a single support strut. I unscrewed it and got it off in about ten minutes then stood there weighing the long metal rod in my hand.
It was solid and heavy. I swung it and made a satisfying whistle through the air.
I pictured slamming it into Owain’s head over and over and over until he stopped moving.
My stomach twisted into bits, but I made myself close my eyes and picture it again.
Hitting him, in the head, over and over, until his skull broke and he died.
I gagged. I was so cared I thought I might cry.
I was going to do it.
Time slipped past. I sold some more shirts up front. A few online orders trickled in. I filled them, even though I didn’t think I’d ever get to the post office again after today.
I was going to murder someone.
Five came, then six. I kept the metal rod leaning against the counter. I looked down at it every few minutes and tried to see myself hitting Owain in the face until he died.
Six-thirty rolled around. A young guy with a buzzed head and his hippie girlfriend laughed at some of the really lame shirt slogans and ended up buying some of my geometric designs. The girl complimented the shop but I just smiled at her and barely heard it.
When they left, I locked up and went into the back.
Owain would come soon. I sat in the computer chair and tried to stay calm. I held the rod in my lap and ran my fingers along its smooth tube. I was going to use it to kill him. I was going to bash him in the face until he was dead.
I shut my eyes then opened hem again.
It was time.
I got up and hid right where the door would open. I was going to use the same trick on him again, since I figured he wouldn’t expect it twice. I stayed still and quiet with the lights off.
Soon I heard something up front. The door opened then closed. Of course he had the spare key. He’d infected my entire world and had taken it over like a virus. My palms were sweating and I had to wipe them on my jeans. I gripped the metal rod tight in both hands.
I heard his footsteps in the hallway. He walked slow and deliberately. I knew it was him from his gait, it just had to be him.
The door opened. I wanted to scream. I was so scared that I might not go through with it, scared that I might chicken out at the last minute.
He stepped inside. I saw him from behind: tall, muscular, broad, light colored hair. Handsome as all hell.
I had to murder him.
He turned in my direction. I stepped forward and swung the rod as hard as I could at his face.
And connected.
His head snapped back and he grunted in pain. His hands came up to his nose. A satisfying spurt of blood smacked onto the ground.
“Fuck,” he said. “The fu—”
I came at him again. I hit him hard in the shoulder then aimed for the head. He stumbled back, nose bend and bleeding, eyes wild with rage. The rod hit him in face again, but it was just a glancing blow. It ripped a hole on his left cheek to match the claw marks on the other side.
I swung hard, aiming for his head, but he lifted an arm and blocked it. He growled in pain and I could only imagine how much that hurt. He moved fast, coming at me. I stumbled backwards, trying to get space. I swung again and hit him in the side but it didn’t even slow him down.
He smashed me against the wall. I gasped in pain and arched my back. He grabbed the rod and ripped it from my hand. It made a clattering sound as it bounced along the floor. His fist gripped my throat and he breathed hard staring into my eyes as blood ripped down his nose and cheek.
He didn’t smile this time.
I stared back at him, defiant and angry and
