The Taste of Fear

I wish I hadn’t chosen to sit alone at the movies.
but sure enough, in staggered three men, stinking of smoke and alcohol. Great, just what I need, I thought to myself bitterly, praying that they wouldn’t come my way.
The city I currently resided was famous for crime, and in no way was I an exception to the quota. Once people began to recognize my face on the street, I would move on to the next lonely town, but for now I was stuck in my polyester seat, listening as the men came closer. The movie played on, oblivious to the hostile environment below its projector’s glare of light.
They came forward and sat in the seats behind mine, although there were no other people in the theater. No one goes to see a movie at three in the morning. No one but me- and the three men.
“Hey, Girl, what you doin’ alone? I could keep you company, ya know.” The man’s breath smelt foul upon my neck. With a low hiss I stood, turned, and pulled out my knives from my waistband. The taste of the fear on their faces was delicious.

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