Breckenridge, or the Lifelong Search for Justice

“Hide your face, boy. No one wants to see that ugly mug.” That’s what Mama always said to me. It stung, of course. Who wants to be insulted by darling Mama?

Ah, but she was right. This mottled, purple, gelatinous mess, with one eye and a vein-speckled nose sliced at the tip; it was truly hideous. Guess that’s what happens when you get close to a deranged chain-smoking stepfather wielding a scalpel and a tin of gasoline.

I went underground as soon as I escaped that house. Took to wearing a hooded cape to hide my shame. I wanted to track down all the vile scum, to teach them a few lessons of my own. I’ll never forget the day Agent Collins came into that seedy, dank pub. He took one look at me and knew I’d bring in the baddies.

Now I sit here, bundled up outside B & L’s Convenience, waiting for justice. Jangling my lipstick-stained cup, filched from the rancid streetwalker with the ripped leather skirt, I watched him approach. He shuffled like a man on death’s door. As he passed, I reached up, slapped cuffs on his wrist, and gave him a punch for good measure. His ticket for what he did to me and Mama.


Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on Flash!Friday:

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