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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 so scared I thought I might pass out. He didn’t squeeze my neck hard enough to choke me, but I could feel the power there. I knew he could kill me whenever he wanted.
He could rip me to pieces.
In that moment, I realized it was hopeless.
He was a monster. A gorgeous, enormous monster. Even with the broken nose and the scratched-up face, I felt attracted to him. Attracted and repulsed and disgusted with myself. He was an animal, a brute, a maniac. And I still thought the suit he wore clung to his body like a glove, and the way he carried himself with perfect confidence made me want to throw myself at his feet and let him have his way with me.
I thought I might throw up.
“Are you done?” he asked.
I nodded.
“No more poles?”
“No more.”
“Knives? Sharp fucking things?”
“Nothing.”
“Should’ve tried to stab me.” He released my throat and stepped back. He took a handkerchief from his back pocket and dabbed at his nose.
