SICKER THAN CAN BE IMAGINED
She was far more than just a cliche. She was dripping with stereotypes and classic imagery. Any student studied in literature or movies could pick her out of a crowd. But that was the least of her worries.
Charlotte was done with being used by men. She was done seeing other women being used by men. She was tired of weakness and she was tired of surrender.
She walked down the busy sidewalk, nonchalant, even with the gun holster around her shoulders. She actually found it comforting, empowering. And power was all she cared about now.
A satisfying tingle travelled down her spine as she thought about the gun in that holster and what she had used it for. She smirked malevolently, walking with her chin held high and her toes pointed, one after the other in the expensive black leather boots she wore. She pulled the luxe leather trench coat closer to her skin, hiding her blood splattered white blouse. White is always the right color for killing.
She pursed her deep red painted lips together as she savored the memory in her mind. She curled her toes at the now familiar feeling of the gun in her hand, her finger at the trigger, pressed to the skull of the man in the chair. She rolled her eyes in ecstasy as she remembered the strength behind the thud of lead against bone, the ignition of the gun powder, the ease it took to kill a man.
And now, as she stepped inside the poorly lit bar and up the back staircase, she paused, turning a shoulder to look upon the men at the counter and in the booths. How powerless they all would be with a barrel to their temple. How quiet they would become with the heel of her boot on the back of their necks. She smirked again, returning to her path up the staircase, into her room.
How weak a man became, how incredibly limp he is when his useless brains are sprayed on the wall.
The pungent scent of blood reached her nose as she entered the room. Then she glanced at the man, still perched in the armchair, lifeless. She smiled, chuckled even, the corners of her eyes wrinkling with glee. A small pool of blood had gathered around the chair. She walked over to the dead man, recognizing his face even with half of it blown away. She shrugged out of her trench coat and laid it carefully on the bed. The speckles of dried blood on her blouse and skin didn't distract her as she pulled her gun from the holster and aimed it at the body. She shot him three times in the balls.
She didn't give a fuck if the bartender heard the shots. She couldn't care less if the customers call the police. All she could do was relish the fact that this man would never again have any power over her or any other woman.