The Coup :: THE INTRODUCTION

        They sit out on the patio overlooking the marble fountain. Clear and crisp water bubbles and frothes through the polished limestone, shaping something only The Observer understands.
        The birds are content today. Merry, even. Their chirps and songs echo all around the grounds. The fresh and strong leaves whistle beneath the light breeze. Everything is very much alive. Mid-July always did boast that aspect of the world.
        The two women sit outside in the warmth of early-afternoon in July. The exquisite patio furniture is very comfortable. Four tall chairs, each with armrests and thick cushions on both the seats and backrests. The table is glass-topped, with a deep green edge and legs. The tall, thick green canvas umbrella, forces shade upon them both.
        Three platters adorn the table. Each with different treats. One, a dark blue plate, holds intricately sliced fruits. Strawberries, honeydew melon, kiwi, pineapple, watermelon, papaya, passion fruit, blueberries and raspberries, cantaloupe. Small, two-pronged forks are placed around a small bowl of fresh thick cream, centered by the fruit.
        The second platter, this one deep red -almost purple, really- holds various pastries. Small round buns, lightly glazed with caramel and topped with flaked-chocolate. Cheese-filled croissants of the lightest possible crust -seeming almost to melt in one's mouth. Muffins that look more like golden clouds with drops of rich chocolate melted into their centres and tops. Cinnamon buns, sticky to the fingers and almost painfully sweet to the palette; some glazed with candied-sugar, others brushed with white chocolate. Small dark truffles, marked with white and milk chocolate, placed around the other items.
        The third platter is a deep forest-floor green colour. This final setting holds small finger foods. Three-inch-long breaded sticks, filled with melted mozzarella, cheddar, and Brie cheeses. Battered chicken strips, brushed with honey mustard. Round crackers topped with smoked Gouda and finely sliced ham kolbassa. Grilled chicken breasts, cut into bite-sized pieces, stuffed with strips of smoked ham and goat cheese. Small round balls of chicken koftas surrounding a bowl of lime pickle. Spring rolls filled with pieces of beef and pork, stuffed with bell peppers and sprouts, complete with a soft cucumber dipping sauce.
        Four glasses are placed on the table as well -two for each woman. One being a tall crystal wine glass, the other a smaller tumbler. There are also three bottles, and a crystal pitcher, too.
        One bottle is a dark blue colour, with a pale label covered in French words; ice wine from Northern Quebec. The second bottle is a clear glass. It has a black label, this time with Italian print; a brilliant red wine from the Hills of the Trasimeno -The Observer's second favourite. The crystal pitcher contains clear, crisp, and fresh water. Small round icecubes float about on the surface of the still water. The third bottle is clear -more than half empty- with a white label. The words are English, save the name itself: Te Bheag. The Gaelic dubbing for this particular brand of unchilfiltered Scotch. This is The Observer's absolute favourite.
        "You're not eating," says her guest, dipping one of the spring rolls into the cucumber dip and taking a bite.
        The Observer raises a single eyebrow, before taking a sip from her tumbler, filled with deep amber drink. She allows the Scotch to rest on her tongue for a moment before feeling it run along her throat, heating her entire body.
        "You should eat something," says her guest, finishing off the spring roll, and taking a sip of her golden ice wine. "Damn this is good!"
        The Observer smiles, lighting a cigarette and inhaling long and slowly. The blue smoke rises from the tip of the smoldering white stick, curling into the air and climbing as far as possible before being obliterated by the slight breeze.
        "You should really eat something," continues the guest, placing her glass back on the table. "There's no way I can manage to stuff all this down my throat."
        "There's no way either of us can manage to finish half of this," says The Observer calmly, her voice silken as she places her burning cigarette into the varnished ashtray to her right.
        "Then why in the name of God did you have so much made?"
        With a small shrug of the shoulders, The Observer answers in that same silken and calm voice, "I've got to keep my people busy, don't I?"
        "Listen, you don't have to do all this. I mean, you don't have to play the cool and composed writer for me. I know that you're upset about what happened to--"
        "Do not start with that, Leigh." The silken voice is drowned beneath a deep anger.
        "Kay, listen to me," presses Leigh, turning in her chair to face her friend. "We all know what happened. We're all worried sick about you out here. Mi--"
        Again, The Observer slices through the words of her friend. "Drop it! Don't bring this up again! I told you once that I would be fine. Well here I am! It's been two years and I've gotten over it. So drop this bullshit about my needing to talk about it!"
        "It's been two years, Kay," begins Leigh softly, "And you still haven't come home."
        "This is my home."
        "This is not your home. This isn't even your country. You aren't a citizen here. You never were."
        "What's your point?"
        "Why are you fighting for them? Why are you fighting a lost battle?"
        Kay says nothing as her grip around her tumbler tightens, the blue smoke from her burning cigarette not making it so far as the edge of the ashtray before being scattered by the breeze.
        "Kerridwen." Leigh's voice is soft as she speaks, draping her arms over the chair. "You watched your wife get slaughtered in the street. You can't get over that."
        Kay still says nothing as she takes a long breath from her cigarette, lighting a second one, and ignoring the voice of her friend.
        "Why fight a losing battle here? This place is already gone. Come home and help us."
        "It's not lost here," answers Kerridwen softly, staring at the fountain. "I can't leave here. I can't leave until we've won."
        "There is no winning here," presses Leigh. "It's already a lost cause. Fighting here is nothing."
        "I have friends here that I can't leave. They are my family now."
        "And we're not? The people who stood by you in the worst of your life?"
        "What the hell am I supposed to do? Just disappear and watch this place burn?"
        "Better than being caught in the flames."
        "My life ended here. I'm not leav--"
        "Exactly! Your life here ended when Mikaela was gunned-down in the street. Your life ended when you ploughed a gun down your husband's throat and pulled the trigger. Kerridwen, your life here doesn't exist anymore. Come home and help us win this fucking war."
        "I won't leave this place until it's safe. I will never leave this place."
        "You aren't fighting for them anymore. You're fighting for someone you can't help."
        Kay's voice was, like Leigh's, becoming more and more harsh. Her anger, normally controlled and completely subdued, began to rise quickly. "Fuck you! All right? Fuck you, Leigh! I know I'm fighting for Mikaela. I know I can't win. I know I'm just avoiding being pumped full of fucking bullets by those monsters! I don't fucking care! I'm staying here because I'm needed. I'm needed here more than I am back home. And you all know it! Everyone with us fucking knows it! I'm the only one who can get the weapons here. And there's no fucking way in hell that I'm leaving." She turned and stared her friend in the eyes, "Either you accept it and help us, or you'll all end up the way it is here."
        Before Leigh could reply, six women stepped onto the scene.
        "Everything all right here?" asked one with red hair.
        "Everything is fine," answered Kay, not pulling her eyes from those of her friend.
        "Oh-kay," said the woman again. "Uhm, we need to talk."
        Leigh looked over the six women. She sighed and looked back to Kay. "The Brits have sent us five full loads of assault rifles." She looked back to the six women for a moment, before continuing to Kay. "We only need two."
        Kerridwen stood and motioned for Leigh to do the same. "Leigh, I'd like you to meet the COUP."

The Angel Of Death

      Her footsteps echo through the empty hallways. The lights are not coming to life. It is, after all, four hours after the curfew.
      The place is quiet as the grave. It is a well past two o'clock in the morning. The world sleeps now. Save for those like herself. Her footsteps ringing through the entirety of the house. The others living there hear the footsteps. Though they will deny it upon naught but the most severe tortures imaginable.
      She pushes the door of a dark room open. Her footsteps carry her down a flight of stone steps. Her long black jacket waves with the motion of her long and commanding strides. Her hands, concealed within the most malleable black leather she could buy, carry death.
      Her gloved and tight fist pushes open a second door. She steps into the chilled night. The dogs come tearing at her in silence. They are trained not to bark. They are trained to attack without making any noise -save their rapid running.
      She pulls off one glove. They stop inches from mauling her. They sit and wait.
      She smiles and pulls the glove back on. "Come," she says, her voice deep and sombre.
      Five pitbulls fall in line behind her.
      She smiles again. Her own army.
      After some time, she steps out of the forest. The streets are empty. A few figures -shadows- flash in her vision. To them she is just another shadow.
      Her boots knock on the sidewalk as she walks to the alleyway. The window she passes flashes her reflection in the moonlight.
      She wears a long black coat, hanging down to the middle of her shins. Her boots are thick, climbing to just below her knees. They are dull and black. Her pants cover the boots to the ankle -black and loose, easier to run with. Her shirt is snug. The collar locking at her throat with two dull black buttons. A black nylon mask is pulled over her head. Even the eye slots are covered -a one-way tinted plastic. No one can see into her eyes, but she can see into theirs.
      She had once been called The Angel of Death, as a farce. Now, she is that Angel. Her power is true. When this Angel sees her prey, death is more than certain to follow.
      She steps into the alleyway. The dogs follow and sit beside her. They are silent. She is silent. They lie in waiting.
      Across the street, in the alley opposite her own, she sees the shadows moving. Three of them. Beneath the nylon mask, she smiles. Her hands reach under her jacket, and draw two dull firearms.
      Handguns. She doesn't know what kind they are. She doesn't care. They fire when she wants them to. And that's all that matters.
      Lights appear in the street. Two sets of headlights.
      Perfect, she thinks, setting herself into a crouch.
      The vehicle lumbers closer. The searchlight sweeping over the alleyways.
      She waits. Once, her breathing would grow fast and harsh as her blood and adrenaline would pulse with anticipation. Now, it doesn't matter. Fear doesn't exist. Excitement is dead.
      A then, she sees the front of the vehicle. The dogs all sit up and she leans forward a little. The weapons are clenched in her hands.
      She hears the rocket take off. The first white van jolts and then explodes.
      She goes. Her footsteps slamming against the paved roadway. The dogs rushing forward with her. The others across the way coming forward as well.
      The men and women in the white uniforms rush from their vehicles, trying to find their enemies.
      She sees two men with assault rifles. She squeezes the triggers four times each. Both men fall to the ground. Two more jump from the intact vehicle. The dogs latch onto both men. She empties two shots into their faces. Their bodies are torn to the ground by her dogs.
      She sound of gunfire explodes all around. Flashes of light as weapons are discharged. Barking, screaming, snarling, shouting, and silence.
      Within ten minutes the scene is silent.
      The three others are now two. They incline their heads at her and take off back into the alley. She moves back toward the forest.
      "Come," she says again, in the same deep and sombre tone.
      The dogs follow. Their jowls glistening with blood.
      They step into the forest. She's still got five dogs with her. They tread through the darkness of the forest in silence.
      She doesn't pull the mask from her head. Beneath the nylon mesh, her eyes are dark and empty. They took out ten tonight. They lost one. Her vendetta isn't complete yet, though. It won't ever be complete.
      They all fight for freedom. She, however, fights for vengeance. And she will have it.

The Beginning

        They wandered home slowly. His arm draped on her waist casually. Her head resting against his shoulder gently. Their footsteps in sync. Their voices soft whispers. Their smiles perfect and young.
        "Thanks for supper," she said softly, looking up into his eyes and smiling.
        "Anytime," he answered, squeezing her hip with tenderness.
        She smiled a little more as they walked along the street.
        Two months. They'd gone out to celebrate their anniversary. The past eight weeks had flown by in a whirlwind of love and laughter. Everyone was enviousness of their relationship. Everyone knew about their relationship.
        Her parents loved him. His parents loved her. They shared the same group of friends. They shared the same classes. They shared everything.
        It was Saturday night. It was a little past ten o'clock. The meal had last three hours. They bought everything they could. His father had provided the Visa card. He didn't tell her. She knew it anyway.
        "We can still make the late game," he whispered in her ear, just before he kissed her neck softly.
        She smiled and couldn't quite manage to surpress a soft giggle. "Who's playing?"
        "Oilers."
        "And who are they playing against?"
        "Not sure," he answered, leading her up to the building. "We'll check when we get upstairs."
        She smiled even more as he lead her past the doorman, into the lobby, and then into the elevator. It was the newest building in the city. Everything was brand new. Everything was worth a fortune. His father provided the suite -mostly for business- which always went to his youngest son when the family was out of town.
        The glowing blue numbers ran off on their own, climbing higher as the silent elevator rose to the top of the building. And, as its occupants fell into a deep and long kiss.
        A soft chime whispered to them. The glowing blue numbers read fifteen. They stepped out onto an empty landing, save for a single door with gold numbers -Suite Main.
        He grinned, wrapping his arm around her from behind, and kissing her neck lightly. The key in his left hand quickly found the lock, and they stepped into the dark penthouse.
        She slipped off her jacket, and took his. Both long garments were hung in the entrance closet. He was already in the living room, lounding on the black leather couch. She slipped off her shoes, leaving them by the locked door. He kept his on.
        She slipped onto the couch beside him and kissed him lightly. The game was already on. He draped his arm over her shoulders, pulling her closer. The remote was in his right hand, his left resting on her shoulder and squeezing ever so slightly.
        They watched the game. It was about five minutes into the first period. The Oilers had already scored two goals.
        "Hey," he whispered, watching the television, "Could you get me a drink?"
        She laughed and playfully hit his stomach. "Dream on!"
        His head turned and he faced her. "What?" Their was laughter in his voice.
        "You've got legs," she said, kissing his jaw. "You can get your own drink."
        "Well, yeah. But I don't want to miss anything."
        She laughed a little, "And I do?"
        He pulled his arm from her shoulders and stood. She watched him go into the kitchen, and come back with a bottle of Coors. He sat down, opened the bottle, and took a long swig.
        "None for me, then?" she said, playfully.
        He sighed and watched the game, "You've got legs."
        She stood and moved into the kitchen, getting herself a bottle of water from the fridge. Their was an edge to his voice. She shrugged it off. More than likely, he was upset that the Oilers weren't leading by more than only two goals.
        His feet were up on the coffee table. His beer was in his right hand, the remote lying on his leg. She reached for it, wanting to check the news during the commercial.
        "Don't touch the remote!" he said, grabbing it from her.
        "Why not?"
        "Because you'll start flipping through every channel and I'll end-up missing something."
        She couldn't help but stare at him, now.
        "What?!" he demanded, placing the remote control out of her reach.
        "I'm just as interested in this game as you are."
        He didn't reply. Instead he just went back to his beer. She shrugged and took a sip of her water. Some evening, she thought silently.
        By the time the second period came to its end, they were at opposite ends of the couch. Three empty beers sat on the floor by his feet. Her water was half empty.
        Suddenly, she stood up and moved off to the entrance.
        "Where are you going?" he asked, standing and watching her pull her coat out of the closet.
        "I'm going home."
        "Why?"
        "Because, Keith, you're being an asshole."
        He stared for a moment before approaching her. Very gently, he took her face in his hands -without putting the nearly empty bottle of beer down- and kissed her lightly. "Don't go," he whispered, "I'm sorry."
        "Mom won't like me staying the night anyway," she said, pulling on the sleeve of her jacket.
        "Since when do you care about that? You've stayed here with me loads of time before now."
        She slipped her feet into her shoes and struggle to slip her arm into the other sleeve. "Yeah, well," she began, fighting with her jacket now, "I'm going home."
        She felt him grab her arm and hold it tight. "You can't go home."
        She stared at him. "Let go of me."
        He didn't answer her. He kissed her. He said how much he loved her. He told her that she was the one for him. He didn't let go of her arm.
        "Keith," she said through clenched teeth, trying to hold her anger, "Let go of my arm."
        Then, he hit her. His right hand crossed past his left shoulder and hung there for a split-second. Then, she watched as the cold beer bottle moved closer to her face. It was a brown blur. She didn't see it -not really. She felt it.
        The cold and thick base of the glass bottle struck her face. She felt it collide with her right cheekbone. She felt the small indents in the bottles bottom peel at her skin. She felt her head snap to the left -hard and fast enough that she felt fire explode from the base of her neck, and climb to the very top of her head, within her skull.
        The white and black tiled floor flew up to meet her. She fell hard. Her left wrist broke her fall. Her face stung and throbbed.
        She clenched her jaw. Pure rage flooded her veins. She looked up at him, and made to grab at his ankle, to drag him down to the floor with her. She was strong. She had fought with the boys all her life. There was no way some drunk asshole was going to do this to her! No way in fucking hell!
        As she grabbed for his ankle, she watched a black blur come at her face. Before she knew what happened, the toe of his shoe smashed against her swollen eye.
        She tried to grab his ankle again. She couldn't see anything from her right eye. She couldn't hear anything except the blood slamming against her ears, and the deep gasping breaths filling and emptying her lungs.
        She felt another solid and cruel object slam against her ribs. And then, a second later, another something slam straight into her stomach.
        Had she not been on the floor already, she would have doubled-over. All the air in her body seemed to explode from her. She lied there, turning-in on her body, gasping for air.
        She looked up at him as he knelt beside her. Their was sweat on his forehead, dripping off his nose. He looked as though he'd just run a marathon in the middle of July.
        His hand reached her throat. His fingers locked around her windpipe, and he screamed in her ear. "If you ever try to make me feel guilty again, I'll kill you!"
        He lifted her head from the floor, about a foot and a half. His fingers tightened even more. She felt every inch of his calloused hand on her skin. She felt her body still reeling from having the wind knocked out of her. And then, she felt him push her head down and back.
        The tiled floor connected with the back of her skull. She heard something like a melon being smashed by a baseball bat -a dull and hollow sound, echoing in her ears, mingling with the pounding blood. Fresh pain swarmed through the entirety of her head, a sharp and burning dagger almost piercing into her from her head was being ground into the flooring.
        Everything went very dark. The last thing she was aware of was the dagger pushing itself further and further into her head.

        She woke up and everything was still dark. She could barely move. She looked at her wrist for her watch. It was gone. Everything was gone. Her earrings. Her necklace. Her rings. Everything.
        Her right was was burning and pulsing. She touched it, tentatively. It burned and pulsed even more. She winced as her fingers touched the broken and swollen flesh. She felt something crack and peel as her face winced.
        The door was just beside her. She took the handle and lifted herself up, ignoring her body. She stumbled to the kitchen and stared at her reflection in the microwave door.
        Her right eye was nearly completely swelled shut. It was already purple and green. Her bottom lip was slip and caked with dry blood. She reached behind her head. Her hair as her fingers broke the caked-blood entangled therein. She pushed her fingers in a little, looking for her skull. She found it easily -the dagger pushed forward again.
        Very slowly, she made her way to the washroom. She turned on the light, and stared even more.
        Her face was worth than the kitchen had reported. Her lip was purple, bleeding freshly, and swollen to the point that she looked to be pouting. Her eye was painted in dark and dry blood, a substantial gash running from the far corner to the base of her cheek bone.
        Her mind fled to the blows against her stomach and ribs. She lifted her blouse, and stared at the bruised ribs. Deep blue patches were now painted on her skin. She didn't dare touch those marks.
        Her sight wandered back to her face. She stared. She couldn't do anything but stare. His words rang in her ears again, just as they'd one when he originally spoke. "I'll kill you." Three words. Almost like "I love you". Except completely different.

        Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she can't help but remember that first night. Two months lead to almost four years. It would have been longer still, but three things:
        Her friends figured it out, and watched her closely, always showing support but refusing to let her go back.
        He went to far, and subsequently overdosed one night on heroine. It was suicide. She received a letter three days later in the mail.
        The third thing wasn't much, really. She had spent a long time with her friends, when the marks were at their worst. It was with them that she realized her freedom was their. It was that realization that pushed him to suicide.
        Everyone will tell her it wasn't her fault. Suicide is a solitary act. You can't blame yourself for someone killing themselves. But she still does. She always will. She could have stopped him. She doesn't know how, but she knows that she could have.
        What would have been worse? A few bruises and a couple of broken bones, or knowing that you killed someone?

Scoundrels

        The breeze is so warm, even a little damp. It smells of damp soil and aging leaves. The sky is a deep and crisp blue. There's not a single cloud anywhere in the world above. A couple of sparrows fly overhead, screeching their soft cries.
        Off to the East, the sky is growing steadily darker. The sky to the West has that pale late evening light, still. The trees are all bare. The leaves scattered about on the ground, creating a sea of dark browns and dying golds. The squirrels are busy -running back and forth, chattering to one another as they run up and around the slumbering trees.
        Everything is so quiet. The park is all but empty. There are a few people coming and going. Joggers. People walking their dogs. Cyclists.
        The benches are all a dark brown. Not a nice colour, but rather the kind that comes from years and years of painting over graffiti.
        She sits by herself. She sits on the same bench, every Friday, at this time, as she's been doing for three months. It's her little bit of time alone. It's the only place she enjoys anymore.
        A dog rushes up to her. He's big and black. A lab mix, she thinks. His eyes are round and shining. His tail wags back and forth with more enthusiasm than she could ever hope to muster. His tongue hangs out the left side of his mouth, gobs of thick drool glistening his jowls and chin. He's dropped a very soggy tennis ball at her feet.
        She smiles a little and extends her hand slowly. The long and wet tongue immediately licks her hand. The dog barks playfully, something of a high yelp, but still with that trace of deep throated bark.
        Her foot kicks the tennis ball. The dog chases after it. His feet run straight over the slimy green thing. His whole body sort of bends-in on itself and he dives forward at the ball. His tail-end comes around to the right, hard and fast. His whole body rolls over the ball. He pushes it forward, somewhat running while laying on his side. His nose nudging the ball forward as he tries to grab at it with his teeth.
        She watches him play, and she laughs a little.
        He jumps up, grabbing the ball in his mouth, and rushes back to her. His expression shouts "Do it again! Throw it again!!"
        This time, she reaches down for the ball. He runs back a few strides and watches her. The front part of his body lies flat to the ground, while his back curves up. The thick black tail continues to swing back and forth, causing his back-end to way beneath the momentum of the tail.
        She smiles at him as she grabs the ball. The gobs of thick saliva coat her hand, but she doesn't it much attention. She tosses the ball. Not overly hard, just far enough to give him a good run.
        Laughter trickles up from her soul as she watches him chase after the ball again. He runs straight over it, turning sharply and almost swallowing the ball whole.
        She looks around the park. No one seems to be watching. No one seems to be looking for their errant mutt.
        The dog comes hurtling back. He runs quickly, almost jumping up with every other stride. Again, he drops the ball by her feet. He watches her carefully as she reaches down for the green piece of rubber and fur.
        She makes to throw it, and laughs as he runs off and looks to see where his quarry has landed. He looks back at her. She tosses the ball into the air a little and catches it. He watches the ball, his tongue waggling out the side of his mouth again.
        That's when she sees him, striding toward the park with the utmost grace. His arm draped over the shoulders of another woman. She stares. She can't help it. She knows full well that he cheats of her. She knows, also, that she can't rebuke him for it. She did it once. She won't do it again.
        The dog nudges his snout against her hand. She drops the ball. It bounces once and rolls under the bench. Her eyes are fixed on him. He smiles at her, and kisses the other woman, before smiling in her direction again and continuing on his way.
        The dog nudges her hand again. This time fixing his snout under her hand, chin resting on her knee. She looks at him, at the round and shining eyes staring up at her. She smiles a little, scratching his ear.
        A woman comes up into the park from the right. She's carrying a leash in her hand and she makes a straight line toward the black lab.
        "Scoundrel," she says, tying the leash to his blue collar. "Hope he didn't bother you," she says with a smile, reaching under the bench for the tennis ball.
        "No. No, he didn't bother me," she answers, with a soft smile.
        The other woman starts to walk away, the dog in tow. He bounces around his mistress, barking and yelping with apparent glee.
        She watches as they walk away. She looks at her jeans, and notices the considerably large gob of drool where his chin had been.
        A smile crosses her lips.

Wait For Me

        "So, you coming tonight or what?"
        Uhm, I can't."
        It's not the guy again, is it?"
        Uhm, no."
        "You're lying to us."
        "Come on! It'll be fun! We haven't been bar hopping in ages. You never come out with us anymore. Stay at my place. He doesn't know where I live so it's not like he'll come looking for you there!"
        "Besides, have you seen her Dad? Dude could scare Satan."
        A faint smile crosses the pale and soft lips before they answer, "I just can't."
        The two other women sigh. They've been worried about their friend for over a month now. She hasn't so much as smiled in days. Her weight has been dropping for no reason. And she hasn't stopped looking over her shoulder for a solid three weeks.
        The woman with the short black hair releases a second sigh as she leans back into the couch. "Listen, Dad knows what's going on." She answers her friend's silent question without hesitation. "Yes. I told him, Aimee. I told him that I think your boyfriend is kicking the living shit out of you. I told him because I wanted to know if I could press charges."
        Aimee smiled just a little. It wasn't the attention. She hated the attention she received from the bruises. It was the concern. She'd thought that no one was asking because no one cared. "What did your Dad say?" The question was very soft, and very cautious.
        "He said I can't do a fucking thing until you decide to change things."
        Aimee sighed with visible relief.
        "How can you be relieved?"
        "How can I not, Kinsey?"
        "Aimee, he's going to keep hurting you no matter what you do." This was Aimee's other friend. Her deep brown eyes didn't even make an attempt to shade the fear in her voice.
        "He's going to stop, Kinsey. He will."
        "Damn it, Aimee! Stop thinking that you can change him. No matter how many times he tells you that he loves you, he'll turn around and beat the living shit out you! Stop thinking that you can change a monster! You can't. He's a fucking psycho, and he'll always be a fucking psycho!"
        Aimee frowned and forced her anger aside. "You have no right to make judgments about him, Lynn. You have no right--"
        "Bull shit! You're my friend and when I see you come to class with bruises and a fat lip, it becomes my business!" Lynn was on the point of screaming the words. Aimee may have been able to control her anger, but her friends were not.
        "Trust me," said Aimee with a very soft voice, and a gentle expression in her eyes. "It'll be okay. It'll stop in a couple of days. I promise."
        Her friends watched her carefully. A couple of days. She'd never said anything like that. It sounded as though she had something planned. Something that would end all of the beatings with the utmost simplicity.
        Lynn looked over at Kinsey. The latter never once took her eyes from Aimee's as she spoke, "Are you going to...You're not going to do something, are you?" It sounded like she was asking if her friend was going to kill her boyfriend. She hadn't thought it was going to come out that way. Her intention was a similar notion, only a self-inflicted one.
        "Oh gods, Kinsey," said Aimee, sitting up suddenly and looking rather shocked. "No. No. I wouldn't ever do that!"
        Kinsey blushed with embarrassment. Apparently, her unspoken murder had been the exchange. "I didn't mean kill him." She looked to Lynn, and then back to Aimee. "I meant, you're...Well, you're not going to...Or thinking of..." She hesitated. She and Lynn had both talked about the changes in their friend's behaviour. They'd spoken of that taboo subject. But they'd been avoiding a direct confrontation for reasons they didn't understand. "Well, I just mean..."
        Lynn stepped in and abruptly cut her friend's words short. "Are you planning on killing yourself?"
        Aimee stared. She couldn't think of a reply. Lynn's voice was harsh and direct. Her eyes were anything but. She'd asked the question while looking at the wall directly behind her friend's head. Her hands were stuffed deep into her pockets. She was biting the inside of her mouth. Kinsey's reaction was something of the same. Her hands were clenched into small fists, and her eyes were directed to the floor.
        Aimee realized she would have to tell them. She would have to tell them everything.
        "Aimee?" Kinsey's voice was quiet.
        "I'm not going to kill myself," answered the girl with the chestnut hair and the green eyes. "Though, I'll be honest, I've thought about it a lot lately. Hell, I tried to do it."
        Neither Lynn nor Kinsey made any reply. This was turning into some cheesy teen soap opera. And they both had a feeling they knew what was coming out next.
        Aimee hadn't been going out to the parties at all. She'd been avoiding the bars as though they carried the plague. She drank nothing but water and milk.
        "You're pregnant." Lynn and Kinsey spoke together.
        Aimee nodded her head softly. "Yeah."
        "And he's still beating you."
        "Yeah."
        "So you haven't told him."
        "No."
        "When?"
        "Tomorrow night. After class."
        "What's he going to say?"
        Aimee fell silent. It was her turn to stare at the floor. "No idea."
        Lynn sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "So, are we supposed to congratulate you?"
        Aimee shrugged.
        "Are you keeping it?" asked Kinsey.
        Aimee shrugged again.
        "You're going to base that on his reaction, aren't you," said Lynn, a deep resentment in her voice.
        Aimee just shrugged again.
        "Well, we're for you either way," she added after a minute of silence had passed.
        Kinsey smiled a bit. "So, what do you mean by that 'Couple of days' thing?"
        Aimee answered softly, "Well, either he stops, or I walk out."
        Lynn and Kinsey looked to one another with skepticism.
        "I'm serious about this one," said Aimee, a definite anger in her tone. "I can't risk anything this time around."
        "This time around?" asked Kinsey.
        Aimee looked to both her friends in turn, and spoke with a slight tremor to her voice. "Uhm, think you guys can wait outside for me tomorrow night?"
        Kinsey looked over to Lynn with an inquisitive expression. "Why?"
        Aimee hesitated to answer. "Uhm, because last time I told him I was pregnant, he pushed me down the stairs and threw me out the door."