She ran breathlessly through the streets, the back alleys scorched with the scent of urine and Tequila regret.  Anger seared through her in waves, matching the thudding of her heart and the pounding of her shoes on the pavement. How could they do this? she thought incredulously, shoving open the door to the bar.
The bartender stared at her for a long moment, saying nothing as he polished glasses.  With a final glance, he raised a brow and turned back to the taps.  “Don’t make a mess.”

Fiery red hair tumbled down her back as she yanked it into a ponytail, storming through the old, dark wood-paneled room.  Past the stolen street signs and alcoholics that were a staple of the place; past the bathrooms that, strangely, always smelled like green Jell-o.  Out into the back room, where a card game was in full force, bets flying as fast as the black-haired men could talk, a pile of chips in the center of the table.

On top of the chips lay her hand.

“You bastard,” she hissed, as the men rose from the chairs.  She shouldered one hard as he approached her, sent her knee flying into the groin of another.  Grabbed the hand on the table with her left and shoved until the titanium clicked into place.

Making a fist, she smiled at her soon-to-be-ex husband who had been trying to gamble their house – and her hand! – away.  Metal against bone had never made such a satisfying sound.

(I know I rarely do fiction here, but it was too good of an image to pass up!  This was a prompt from The Red Dress Club)

2 thoughts on “Stolen.

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