Written By: Emily Ballaine
If the pistol wasn’t pointing at my head I’d kill her. But I can’t let them know. If I let them know there will no longer be a pistol pointing at my head but instead a pistol handle in the back of my head, a glob of blood on those perfectly shined shoes, and my face in the dirt, breathing deep that wet earth smell, so deep it is all I can smell, all that I know, not the rust of blood or the fume of polish or the burn of gunpowder. Wet earth. So I can’t let them know. Continue reading








