Ava: Before killing Justice
Dread pools in my chest. “How could you? She was my best friend.” The hurt is still fresh but the tears have all but dried up months ago. This confrontation has been a long time coming. If there’s any sign that he caught on to my reference of Justice in the past tense he doesn’t show it or hasn’t noticed.
“Ava.” One word, one flimsy toneless mono syllabus that does me in because it’s not one said with sternness telling me I’ve overstepped, that I’m being rude, brutal. It’s filled with something I can’t place my finger on but recognise because it’s the same admission I gaze at every time I look into the mirror. Guilt. Mine wanes away because he’s guilty enough for both of us.
He points to one of the high bar stools, and I comply as he swings for another round of his drink and downs it right before my eyes. When he does it again, I make a discordant sound at the back of my throat. “Really,
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