Search For Justice
Posted: Mon Jan 26, 2009 6:19 pm
January 23, 2009. 9:18 p.m.
I kept my head bowed and my Third Eye open as far as I was able, searching for that psychic trace everything possessed. The curbside I walked along was flowered with people, far more than when I had last been here almost exactly a month ago; but the scents in particular I searched for were still beyond my reach—for now. My abilities had waned considerably with the loss of Ron Anthony. Now, I had to strain to search the same circumference that would have taken no more effort than listening to the radio a month and a day ago.
The people seemed to sense my determination. Those that would have offered to help me backed away instead. Keeping my chin to my chest, I continued my search for . . . them. My imagination filled in the holes for my eyes, though my other senses colored it in sections. The shades of cold varied in patches and strips—the difference between walking through the sunlight, under the awnings of buildings, and down patches of shadow. Across the street and turning a curbside, I recalled the exact path I had taken and continued.
My head snapped up.
There . . . there . . . and there. It was them. And they were headed for me.
My pace quickened and my thoughts went down a path of anger and vengeance, resentment clouding the edges of my thoughts. With a flick of my feelings, I stored the negative emotions for later. I let the men heard me once more in a way that was too reminiscent of last year. Their tactics had hardly changed. But the circumstances had. I was no longer pregnant. I wasn’t encumbered with the Christmas spirit or—once I had shed my coat and similar—burdensome winter wear.
“I think you look lost, doll,” one of the men laughed, the other pair joining.
“And I think you need to pay for killing Ron Anthony—among other crimes,” I growled.
“Hey, we didn’t kill no one,” he complained, sounding alarmed and uncomfortable—my words had slashed an artery; even thieves and lowlifes had some morals, I guess. But maybe it was just me; Hannah had nagged for weeks about the changes I had been forcing my body through.
“My baby, I snapped, turning to the side, so my profile could be seen. One of them cursed and swore—they recognized me.
“Don’t scream, and don’t make trouble,” the leader spoke again, his shaking voice contrasting starkly the metallic snicking sound snapping out—a switchblade, maybe. “We just want your money, honey.”
I raised my hands and tilted my head. They began advancing on me. They grabbed me as one, and I lashed out in two ways, taking the wrist with the blade and snapping my foot around another’s ankle, anchoring number two into place.
“And I want my baby back,” I twisted number one lowlife’s wrist in a direction it was not meant to go and brushing my other arm around to find a neck, tripping number two lowlife and following through with three successive jabs to his throat. The leader cried out and the weapon dropped from his hand, clattering against the floor and bouncing to a rest on my foot of all places. “But I guess we can’t have everything that we want in life, can we?” My voice frosted over with bitter regret.
I ducked and stood, slicing my finger as I swept up the switchblade and jutting out my hand to keep a hold of the number three man. An elbow from my other arm went to his gut and put him out of the fight, giving me time to straighten my posture completely and guide the leader to the wall—an easy enough feat with his own switchblade directed at him. Jamming the blade through his jacket and into the wall allowed me to trap him there for a moment and to free my hands. He was shaking and muttering the Hail Mary prayer under his breath.
“You have no idea what you took from me, do you?” My voice shook with rage and the effort it took not to let the emotions out in an unconstructive manner. I think he shook his head. But I didn’t really care.
“Let me tell you,” I said, regaining momentary control and taking off my sunglasses. His gasp was foul-smelling and synchronous with opening my eyelids wide, twisting my head this way and that, giving him a look at my . . . “eyes” from every angle. He flinched and blubbered when my fingers palmed his face, and I felt glee from his fear. The negative emotions bubbled and frothed like flames . . . my nails scraped his eyelids. When I judged where his gaze was pinpointed, I faced him directly.
“You took my baby boy from me,” I snarled, stiffening my fingers on his cheeks and forcing his eyes open with the motion. “And my purse. I can’t get my baby back, but I can get the two tiger eyes that were in my purse. Now . . . where are they?”
The silky, heated warmth that leaked from my eyes could have been tears.
But somehow, I doubted it.
“The two jewels at the bottom of my purse,” I hinted, my rigid fingers flexing into claws. It would be so easy to push . . . to stab . . . his sight would be gone for good. I was ready to it . . . so ready the temptation hurt and throbbed in my breast. “Where are they?”
The pain he would feel would be nothing to mine, but it would be a start . . . a beginning to and for the justice that he owed me. But a resounding clatter announced a new visitor.
“Wie, what the heck do you think you’re doing?”
The tone in his voice is what made me do it. I had never heard him sound so alarmed before, so . . . scared before. My fingers relaxed, and I lowered my head with a sigh. The lowlife dropped to the ground, weeping in fear and imagined punishment.
“Ron.”
I kept my head bowed and my Third Eye open as far as I was able, searching for that psychic trace everything possessed. The curbside I walked along was flowered with people, far more than when I had last been here almost exactly a month ago; but the scents in particular I searched for were still beyond my reach—for now. My abilities had waned considerably with the loss of Ron Anthony. Now, I had to strain to search the same circumference that would have taken no more effort than listening to the radio a month and a day ago.
The people seemed to sense my determination. Those that would have offered to help me backed away instead. Keeping my chin to my chest, I continued my search for . . . them. My imagination filled in the holes for my eyes, though my other senses colored it in sections. The shades of cold varied in patches and strips—the difference between walking through the sunlight, under the awnings of buildings, and down patches of shadow. Across the street and turning a curbside, I recalled the exact path I had taken and continued.
My head snapped up.
There . . . there . . . and there. It was them. And they were headed for me.
My pace quickened and my thoughts went down a path of anger and vengeance, resentment clouding the edges of my thoughts. With a flick of my feelings, I stored the negative emotions for later. I let the men heard me once more in a way that was too reminiscent of last year. Their tactics had hardly changed. But the circumstances had. I was no longer pregnant. I wasn’t encumbered with the Christmas spirit or—once I had shed my coat and similar—burdensome winter wear.
“I think you look lost, doll,” one of the men laughed, the other pair joining.
“And I think you need to pay for killing Ron Anthony—among other crimes,” I growled.
“Hey, we didn’t kill no one,” he complained, sounding alarmed and uncomfortable—my words had slashed an artery; even thieves and lowlifes had some morals, I guess. But maybe it was just me; Hannah had nagged for weeks about the changes I had been forcing my body through.
“My baby, I snapped, turning to the side, so my profile could be seen. One of them cursed and swore—they recognized me.
“Don’t scream, and don’t make trouble,” the leader spoke again, his shaking voice contrasting starkly the metallic snicking sound snapping out—a switchblade, maybe. “We just want your money, honey.”
I raised my hands and tilted my head. They began advancing on me. They grabbed me as one, and I lashed out in two ways, taking the wrist with the blade and snapping my foot around another’s ankle, anchoring number two into place.
“And I want my baby back,” I twisted number one lowlife’s wrist in a direction it was not meant to go and brushing my other arm around to find a neck, tripping number two lowlife and following through with three successive jabs to his throat. The leader cried out and the weapon dropped from his hand, clattering against the floor and bouncing to a rest on my foot of all places. “But I guess we can’t have everything that we want in life, can we?” My voice frosted over with bitter regret.
I ducked and stood, slicing my finger as I swept up the switchblade and jutting out my hand to keep a hold of the number three man. An elbow from my other arm went to his gut and put him out of the fight, giving me time to straighten my posture completely and guide the leader to the wall—an easy enough feat with his own switchblade directed at him. Jamming the blade through his jacket and into the wall allowed me to trap him there for a moment and to free my hands. He was shaking and muttering the Hail Mary prayer under his breath.
“You have no idea what you took from me, do you?” My voice shook with rage and the effort it took not to let the emotions out in an unconstructive manner. I think he shook his head. But I didn’t really care.
“Let me tell you,” I said, regaining momentary control and taking off my sunglasses. His gasp was foul-smelling and synchronous with opening my eyelids wide, twisting my head this way and that, giving him a look at my . . . “eyes” from every angle. He flinched and blubbered when my fingers palmed his face, and I felt glee from his fear. The negative emotions bubbled and frothed like flames . . . my nails scraped his eyelids. When I judged where his gaze was pinpointed, I faced him directly.
“You took my baby boy from me,” I snarled, stiffening my fingers on his cheeks and forcing his eyes open with the motion. “And my purse. I can’t get my baby back, but I can get the two tiger eyes that were in my purse. Now . . . where are they?”
The silky, heated warmth that leaked from my eyes could have been tears.
But somehow, I doubted it.
“The two jewels at the bottom of my purse,” I hinted, my rigid fingers flexing into claws. It would be so easy to push . . . to stab . . . his sight would be gone for good. I was ready to it . . . so ready the temptation hurt and throbbed in my breast. “Where are they?”
The pain he would feel would be nothing to mine, but it would be a start . . . a beginning to and for the justice that he owed me. But a resounding clatter announced a new visitor.
“Wie, what the heck do you think you’re doing?”
The tone in his voice is what made me do it. I had never heard him sound so alarmed before, so . . . scared before. My fingers relaxed, and I lowered my head with a sigh. The lowlife dropped to the ground, weeping in fear and imagined punishment.
“Ron.”
More than likely from what little I have learned of her she got out of the car likely. But we shall have to wait and see what happens when she continues her account of what happened.