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It drove me crazy. Every day, I got a little crazier.
The afternoon after I saw the new store passed like any other. Owain was in a dark mood after meeting with Dante, but that didn’t bother me too much. I knew his business was stressful and he’d handle it however he wanted whether I thought he should do something else or not. So I kept to myself and did my job.
There weren’t too many customers. I stared at the TV and tried to remember all my old t-shirt designs. I heard Sander talk to someone up front, then someone knocked on the door to the back and stepped through.
He was skinny with bad skin and baggy clothes. His hair was falling out in spots and he had a white birthmark along his left temple. He itched at the back of his head and bounced from foot to foot the way Jason used to—like most junkies do when they haven’t gotten high in a while.
“What can I do for you?” I asked, standing.
“I need, uh, I’m here for, you know.” He grinned and I saw he was missing a couple teeth. “The pills. I got cash.”
I frowned a little. “That’s okay.”
“That’s okay?”
“Yeah, that’s okay.” He hadn’t said the right phrase and he was making me uncomfortable.
“I’m not a fucking cop.” He stared at me like he could hardly believe this was happening. “Do you see that I’m not a fucking cop?”
“Sure, you’re not a cop. That’s not the issue.”
“What? Issue? What the fuck?”
“I don’t have what you’re looking for. Can you just get out of here?”
He stepped toward me, eyes bugging out. I glanced toward the duffel bag sitting on the table a few feet from him and he followed my gaze.
“You little bitch.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small oblong object. He flicked it and a knife blade popped up, long and ugly and slightly curved.
I put up my hands. “Just relax, okay? Just calm down.”
“Give them to me, you bitch. All of them.”
“Calm down!” I yelled it as loud as I could, hoping Sander might hear. “You don’t have to freak out, okay?”
He stormed over to the duffel and grabbed it. He wrenched it open and a few pill bottles fell down on the ground.
I got to my feet. “You’re making a mistake. You know that, right?”
“Fuck you.” He grinned at me, brandishing the knife. “Little cunt.”
“The mafia owns these pills. What do you think’s going to happen when they catch you?”
“Don’t give a fuck about them, or you.” He threw the bad over his shoulder and turned toward the door.
I ran at him. I don’t know what I was thinking, but all my anger and built up frustration spilled out in one brainless, vicious attack. He seemed surprised when I jumped on his back and started hitting him in the head as hard as I could with my right first. He thrashed and grabbed at my head, and a violent scream ripped from my throat.
I wanted to kill him. I wanted to end his life and make him pay for thinking he could walk all over me. I didn’t know where it came from, but deep inside I felt like there was an animal trying to get out. I wanted to release all my pent-up rage on this stupid asshole junky that was trying to steal my money, my god damn money, all the money I’d worked so hard for and been through so much for.
He slammed me back against a storage rack. I gasped and fell off him, sliding down to land on my ass. He whirled toward me, knife in his hand again, eyes wide with shock and fear and rage, and in that moment I thought I was about to die. I thought the stupid junky asshole would run me through with his knife and cut open my arteries. I’d bleed out on the floor in the back of some bodega over a bag of fucking pills that didn’t really even matter in the long run.
The worst part, aside from thinking I was about to die, was that the next thought that ran through my mind was about Owain.
I was afraid I’d never see him again.
The door to the back burst open and Sander appeared. He held an old shotgun in his hang, the kind with long metal barrels and a wooden grip. He held it out with the back in his shoulder and his eye down the sight.
“Drop the knife, bitch.”
The junky stared at him, took one step, then turned. I don’t know what the hell he was thinking.
Sander pulled the trigger. The shot gun kicked back and made an awful explosion. The junky screamed in pain and fell forward as his back was covered in pellets. The bag hit the ground and the pill bottles spilled out in a wave.
