As I awakened Sunday morning in a cold sweat, I was hit with the realization that today was the one-week anniversary of the incident in the club. Staring up at the ceiling, the memory burned within me, bubbling like a poisonous concoction in my gut.
I rarely knew fear. That night I did—an overwhelming fright of losing the woman who was now asleep beside me. That dread festered and then combined with a savage need for retaliation. Together they became a dangerous combination.
Lying next to Araneae, I had no regret for feeding the retaliatory hunger. I'd do it again.
The newscasters on the local news programs called the double homicide gang-related, another tragic statistic hidden in the shadows. The easy excuse helped fuel the perception of safety. Stay in the right places, avoid the
