Her name is Ugly
Chapter 2Sweat poured out of her body, but she didn’t look bad, she looked like she was supposed to be drenched.
The drenched look worked for her.
The cold air met her wet skin, goose bumps breaking out almost immediately. The coat she had draped around her arm soon became draped around her shoulders, as she made her way down the empty street of the city that wasn’t more silent than it had ever been before.
It was the inkling of a feeling in the back of her mind that told her it wasn’t a usual night.
It was that little creeping suspicion that made her walk briskly, purposeful and intent with where ever she was going.
Her hair flew behind her, shining dully in the street lamplight, her shadow casting a long, threatening silhouette as the man that trailed behind her hid in the dark corners of the upcoming alley.
The knife in his hand felt oddly heavy, the silver capping his teeth throbbed with each breath he took through his mouth, the small stub of his left pointed finger was reminded of what used to be.
A few feet away and he didn’t dare step out of the shadows, he didn’t venture more than a few inches into a grayer shade of light.
The water dripped from a leaking pipe just like the sweat streaming down her hairline. A small crunch of his boots was barely heard above the light din of scurrying rats and abandoned car horns.
As she passed him, not noticing the man in the alleyway or the glint in his eyes, he stepped out of the shadows.
He could hear heart thumping, a steady beat that he grown to love as listened to it die in his hands, listened to fade as if it were the last few notes of a love ballad.
But he was not going to give her love ballad, no, he was going to give her the hell he had to pay for. The hell he had to live through every night as his father came home drunk off his rocker, carelessly throwing his fists around like they looking for something.
They would eventually find something, whether one day it would be his mother’s poor face that took the brunt of the attack like a defenseless mime or it be himself, a boy of twelve years old that could barely lift a finger to a man the size of his father.
It was for the slaps, punches, words.
For the way his father whispered his name like Satan, like a word never to be spoken of.
For the way his dad sliced his finger off like it was nothing but a raw carrot ready to be eaten.
For the way his father made him watch his mother’s last dying breaths as she gasped on the kitchen floor.
In three easy steps the girl from the dance floor was on the ground, her eyes shining up in horror as the knife he hid in his pocket shined in the solemn streetlight.
The words never escaped David’s mouth; she had no room to breath as his heavy, laden foot came atop her chest.
He leaned down to her face, his knife held menacingly by the edge of her eye brow, pressing his boot down into her chest.
No air found its way into her lungs.
No words found their way out her mouth as the knife dug into her skin and straddled to keep her arms
from messing up his kill.
The knife trailed from her brow to the base of her jaw, a clean slice of blood following it.
Then he stopped.
He looked into her eyes, he didn’t allow his knife to dig deeper as it reached her neck, no, he halted the progress.
Her green eyes shown up at him in absolute terror and paralyzed torture, an almost comforting familiarity,
He threw the knife to the side of the alley, taking his sweet time getting off of her.
Backing up against the brick wall of the shattered building, he realized that he saved a woman from his wrath.
A woman that had eyes that awakened his memories, that reminded him of the father that he saw die.
The knife had skittered to the edge of the trashcans lining the backstreet.
He took the knife, slicing it down his face like he had done to the mother-lady.
Right before he allowed the knife to do the world a sort of justice it deserved.
His body slumped to the ground.
He listened as his own heartbeat faded away like the last few words of a love ballad.