Killing him at the river didn’t work. She moved to plan B. The house where he made her life hell was better anyway.
No one would hear him here, and if they did, it wouldn’t matter. Between the drug dealers and those who remembered him, the cops wouldn’t be called. “Hell, they might even help me.”
She took out her supplies: box cutter, bleach, cigarettes and his favorite, duct tape. Just everyday items, but to him, they were toys.
However, it was time for the shoe to be on the other foot. Time for him to taste his own medicine.
For Friday Fictioneers, with a twist. This is sequel to last Friday’s short fiction piece.
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