A Killer Once More Over

December 2, 2012
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“Come to the bank with me!”


“Come to the bank with me!”

I roll a pencil across the hall. “Want the stick, boy? Go fetch!”

“Come to the bank with me!”

“Leave me alone!”

“Come to the bank with me!”

“Fine,” I surrender, throwing my hands up dramatically. “Just don't expect me to have fun.”

He smiles, “I won't. Now hurry along, troll, we've only got a half hour left of lunch.”

I pull myself to my feet, hoping to look so pathetic Drew will give up and let me read in peace. Faking a stumble, I cling to my locker door as if my life depends on it, and slowly open my lock. I begin tucking my book in on the top shelf while I let out a small whine like a dog waiting on its dinner.

“I've got French next, I'm in no rush. Though, I'm sure you don't want to miss your lame hockey class.”

“Puck off.”

“Très original, ma chérie.”

“Seriously?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow.

I throw on my jacket, the one I know Drew doesn't like, because he says it looks too businessy. Personally, I love it, because I got it off the rack, and it fits me perfectly. That kind of flawless has to be a sign from the gods of fashion, who usually steer clear of me. Trying to dress like I'm not from the sixties is a struggle due to their indifference.

We get to the bank, and we realize there's a sizable line-up. Six people. We could be here a while.

“Let me braid your hair,” Drew finally says.

“You don't even know how to braid.”

“So teach me.”

I sigh. “No.”

“Teach me.”


I give in after ten minutes of arguing, and it takes another five to teach him. I'm beginning to become concerned, as it's already been twenty minutes since we left the school, and I don't want to be late for Hockey. I took it because my acting agent told me I need to become more aggressive. And hey, what's more aggressive than hockey?

“This does not look right,” he says, laughing.

“Let me see.”

“Uh, nuh-uh.”



“Just let me see it!”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize something's not right. The way the words hit the air isn't normal – it's like they just flew at a Velcro wall, and are stuck there, their travels cut short.

Then the gun fires.

Drew pulls me to the ground and behind a display case. I hear the woman barking, and screams. The robber's not what I'd have expected. Middle-aged white women don't typically hold up banks.

Breathless, I look over at Drew, but he's peering over the top of the display. I want to cuss at him, tell him he'll give our hiding spot away, but I'm too scared to even breathe right, let alone speak. Suddenly, he drops back down to the low crouch we were in.

“Hello, dearies, why are you hiding?” a voice asks gently.

I jump, and feel a hand slip in mine. To my relief, it's Drew's. “Sorry, ma'am, we heard a gunshot and acted on instinct. I really hope we didn't offend you,” I reply politely, lacking sarcasm. I hope.

I'm terrified of the hag, but I can't show it.

“I like you,” she says. “You two can go sit in the waiting area. I should hope you won't call the police.”

As if to emphasize her point, a young man with spiked hair runs for the door, pulling and pushing, only to find the doors are locked. She aims her gun for his gut and shoots, watching indifferently as he clutches at his bloody gut, gurgling and spluttering like an ancient car.

I know now how necessary it is that I stay on her good side.

She could've killed him, but she didn't go for a lethal hit. She went for suffering. She wanted him to hurt, because he disobeyed.

I shudder, holding tighter to Drew as he leads me to the comfy armchairs in the waiting room. On any other day, I'd be thrilled by this room – it has a mural of a sunset on one wall, and fake grass for carpeting.

Drew whispers to me, talking nonchalantly in some last-ditch effort to keep me from self-destructing. I can't hear him, though, not with the ears that matter. Sure, I can hear him speak, but not a single word clicks. I have this terrible feeling that I'm in a living nightmare.

One by one, four of the other patrons who were in line with us join Drew and I, perching awkwardly on chairs and sofas. Some are visibly sweating, looking terrified. I recognize one young woman as a friend's sister. She's lovely, smart, and young, and I'm scared all over again that she'll die. I don't want anyone here to die, except our captor, and I definitely don't want this young lady to die. She has a future, no doubt about it.

The robber sweeps into the room, caressing her trusty gun. I wonder for a fleeting moment what sort of gun it is, but I know nothing of firearms. So, I refocus on the shoes of my fellow prisoners, trying to guess where each came form, who they are, and why they're here.

The woman shoots a little girl who sits perched on her grandfather's lap. My friend's sister. The old guy. She shoots at random, and I feel Drew's grip cut off my circulation. He's like a vice. When I feel it loosen I know he's gone, and pry my eyes from the ground to meet the woman's gaze.

I stare her down, using one look to its full potential. Go ahead and pull the trigger, b****. Be a killer once more over, as if it really matters to me. Dead or alive I'll be there in the back of your mind until you die, and if there's an afterlife, I'll haunt you there, too. They'll come and take you away, and each white, padded wall will have my face on it. My eyes will be there. I will always be watching you, judging you. Because you will forever be nothing more than an abomination, a mistake, and a scar on this world. Because you are a mistake. Mistake. Mistake. Mistake...

She aims her gun at me. I reach up to hold my hair, braided clumsily by a now dead boy, and accept my fate. I don't try to stop her. I just meet those lacking blue eyes and wait.

Her gun fires and I feel the warmth in my neck; I want to swallow but know I can't. I can't breathe, trying anyways, and failing. A dull weakness takes over. I close my eyes, and my head tilts back, slowly, like it's sinking. But I don't feel the leather of the armchair under my braid when my head stops sinking.

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