Trigger
A quiet night out turns violent. . .
It was two in the morning on a warm summer night, the temperature lingering in the low seventies. A lonely woman limped down the empty alley, her face expressionless, her eyes lifeless, her movements staggered like a walking corpse.
Rebecca’s emerald green sequin dress shimmered in the fluorescent light over the backdoor to The Sugar Store, a nightclub known for its obscene college crowd. The light illuminated cuts and bruises on both of her wrists.
Gravel and dirt were embedded in her hair. The square neckline of her dress was stretched into a deep V. Her makeup was smeared, her imperfections exposed to the fresh air. Black mascara stained her eyes and cheeks. Red lipstick, the color of blood, melted down her chin.
She carried her Lucite heels in her left hand, indifferent to the dangers of walking barefoot down an alley littered with broken beer bottles, vomit, and urine, lost in a haze of confusion.
She pushed whimpers through staccato sobs as the sensation returned to her broken psyche. Her purse and cell phone were lying on the ground near the The Sugar Shack door. She grabbed her possessions, and after a moment of reflection — she turned and walked down the alley from where she started.
The backdoor to the club opened and music flooded into the alley. A young Filipino couple walked out and noticed the distressed girl’s torn dress and bruised face.
"Are you okay?" they asked, ready to call 911.
Rebecca nodded, the veins in her left eye bleeding from a hemorrhage.
"Don’t worry, I’m fine."
The couple walked to their car, and called the police.
Rebecca shifted between the light and the darkness as she limped toward the end of the alley. Her hands trembled.
A trio of young men in their first year of college gathered under a tungsten street lamp, celebrating like they scored a winning touchdown. The smell of cigarette smoke and stale beer polluted the air.
"Look who came back," Trevor said, emptying a bottle of Keystone Light down his throat.
Lonnie swayed in the wind, his words slurred. "Want s-some more, baby?" He squeezed his crotch and laughed maniacally, lost in a drunken stupor.
Owen, the third member of the group, slapped his friend’s back and folded in half, laughing. "I bet she came back for your phone number. She wants some more of daddy’s dick."
Rebecca stood motionless, an arms-length from the group. Her cold, dead eyes stared through them as they made their dumb jokes and cackled like hyenas.
She reached into her purse.
"Okay," Trevor puffed out his chest. "Get the fuck out of here, unless you want me to break your jaw." — He smashed the beer bottle against a nearby brick wall.
Rebecca dropped her purse. It hit the ground with a resounding thud. She held a Sauer P238 compact pistol in her right hand, a purchase she made shortly after her last encounter with a drunk college scumbag. She flicked the safety with her thumb.
"Oh shit!" Lonnie screamed.
Rebecca aimed the pistol — and squeezed the trigger.
The resonating sound from the high-pitched crack bounced off the brick walls.
The bullet hit Lonnie in the abdomen, an inch above his groin. He fell to the alley floor with a terrific scream; blood pooled in his lap.
Trevor turned and sprinted. Rebecca squeezed off two shots. One hit him in the middle of his spine, the second caught him in the kidney. His face dug into the hard concrete, and he laid there motionless, not showing so much as a twitch in his eyelids.
The fourth gunshot left Owen with a hole in his larynx. He pressed his palm against his throat, but the blood seeped between his fingers and turned his white polo shirt crimson. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fell onto his back, smacking his skull against the concrete. Three pints of blood formed a glimmering puddle around his head.
Rebecca dropped the pistol. It bounced twice and settled next to her purse. She turned her back to the men and limped down the alley.
The surviving victim moaned in pain, screaming for help, his voice bouncing off of the alley walls as he cried like a baby, waiting for his mother to come and console him.
Rebecca limped out of the alley and toward the nearby ocean. Before sunrise, two uniformed officers found her lying on the beach, fast asleep. A few months later, after a failed temporary-insanity defense, she was convicted of three counts of first-degree murder, and sentenced to life in prison.
