"Where were you when I was still kind?"
- Gregory Alan Isakov, Master and a Hound
Sloth (noun): habitual disinclination to exertion; indolence; laziness.
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KILLING WAS THE EASY PART.
It was the aftermath that kept Stella awake at night. The sobbing, the glassy-eyed stares, the blood-- these were the things that she couldn't bear to remember. All it took was a single bullet and the gentle squeeze of a trigger and someone can go from alive to dead in a matter of seconds.
The first time that Stella killed someone, she immediately threw up behind a dumpster and had a tremor in her hands for weeks. The thing that kept her sane-- and pushed her to continue taking lives-- was the image of her mother and sister's corpses looking back at her.
So she did what she had to do. She set examples of snitches and treacherous drug dealers, dumping their lifeless cadavers into the Los Angeles River. She proved time and time again that she was not someone to be trifled with. She made her abuelo glow with pride as her body count grew to the point where she began to lose count.
This was how Stella Knox was going to survive. She made a mountain of bodies so that she could climb her way to the top where nobody could reach her.
Which is why, when she finally got a text from the burner phone she was given by the Red Lady weeks after their encounter, she didn't hesitate to gather a group of her cousins and make her way to the address given to her.
She didn't blink an eye as she invaded a multi-millionaire's home in the dead of night, guns lifted, fingers on the trigger.
And when she was face-to-face with Senator Adams and his sleeping wife, she swallowed her guilt and let her body take over. Her hands were steady as she riddled the graying man and his significantly younger counterpart with holes.
It was either them, she tried to convince herself, or us.
After, Pascal gripped her arm, a look of despair crossing his tired eyes. "I'm sorry you had to do this, muñeca."
Stella shook him off. "I'm not. And don't call me that. I am not your doll."
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NIMA YOUNG WAS PRETTY AS A PORCELAIN DOLL, STANDING NEXT TO HER HUSBAND ON THE DAIS.
She was dressed in a modest knee-length cream dress and blazer, her hands folded perfectly in her lap. Atop her head was an atrocious hat that might have once been worn by Queen Elizabeth II herself. The blistering L.A. sun seemed to affect everyone but Nima; not once did a bead of sweat form on her flawless skin.
Beside her, Nima's husband was giving a passionate speech about national security, his words clear and precise. Senator Murphy was significantly younger than Nima's previous two husbands, his blonde hair only slightly peppered with gray. She watched with intent as he entranced the crowd. Cameras and journalists alike bobbed in the crowd like buoys at sea.
The news about Senator Adams was announced that morning, and the aftermath was complete chaos. To think, such an important, high-esteemed man, killed in his own home by a gang of ruffians! The middle class were shocked, the upper-class horrified, and the lower-class, well, who cares about the poor? Nima made sure that her husband, currently in the running for mayor of L.A., was the first to address this horrific event.
"We shall no longer tolerate these street gangs to strike fear into our hearts." He continued, his fist pounding against the podium. "If I am elected, I promise you, these attacks will cease, and our civilians can once again live in peace. Let this national tragedy be a paving stone towards a safe future for all."
Nima smiled as the crowd surged with cheers and hollers. Fools, every single one of them. They had no idea that they were all just pawns in a game of politics, and Nima was winning. Yet here they were, clapping and cheering for the puppet beside her instead of her.
A surge of irritation welled inside of her chest, but she made sure to keep her red lips pulled up.
They would all know soon enough.
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A/N: hurray for short chapters!! also only four more chapters left!! i'm planning to finish this before november cause nanowrimo is coming up agh
