one shots

shorty swing my way [41]

august 2004
tuesday
8:43 pm

"Wake your punk ass up, bitch!" I felt a kick to my side.

My eyes squinted open, finding that I was still in the brightly lit bathroom that I killed DeAndré in. I had no energy to fight this lil' bitch that was barking in my face, but if it was necessary to do so, I'd find the strength.

"Your dumb ass really thought you did something, huh? You really thought you had the game figured out. Didn't you? Newsflash! You don't!" she continued to shout as she stood over me.

"I was satisfied with just kicking your ass until you didn't look like yourself. . . but now, I'm gonna' kill you my damn self," she pulled a gun out.
"Do it," I smiled up at her.

"Remember one thing though, sweetie. You'll never be me, and he never would've loved you like he loved me. You were a place holder, and you always will be. . . You can't compete where you don't compare," I smirked cockily.
"That's a lot of talking for somebody that's about to die," she took the safety off of her gun.
"The thing is: I'm gonna' live forever. I'm gonna always be the standard you're struggling to live up to. I'm in your head, bitch," I laughed lightly.

She glared at me for a moment before placing her finger on the trigger. Just as she was about to squeeze it, a voice spoke to throw her off.

"Ashley, the fuck are you doing?"

I glanced over to find DeAndré standing in the doorway of the bathroom, a different attire adorning his body.

How the fuck— Renée, this is no time to lose focus. Take advantage of her not paying attention.

"What does it look like—"
I gripped onto the gun and kicked her in her stomach forcefully. As she stumbled back, I pulled the gun out of her grip and aimed it at her.

"Back the fuck up, Ashley," I spat at her as I slowly stood up. My body was still sore, and I felt so drained of energy that I could barely keep myself standing up, but I persevered.

because that's what boss ass bitches do— we persevere.

"Check this out. . . I'm leaving. Y'all not gone touch me or shoot at me or anything. What y'all gone do is get me some motherfucking food, get me some clothes, and let me walk free. If there's anybody in my way that's not bringing me food or clothes, I'm murking them. End of discussion," I laid down some guidelines.

"Bitch, ain't nobody scared of you, even if you do have a gun. You ain't gone do shit, ol' scary ass—"

I shot her in her shoulder, a yelp escaping her lips as she began gripping onto the wound. She took a knee in order to sulk in her pain a bit.

"That's a lot of talk coming from a bitch that can't even use a gun correctly. Basic ass hoe," I smirked down at her before abruptly turning my attention to DeAndré.

"Honey, I'm a bit parched, and I'm a bit hungry. Fix that, please," I spoke sweetly. He glared at me and shook his head.

"Don't think I forgot that you tried to kill me," he muttered.
"You tried to kill me too, so I guess we're even," I reminded him, making him scoff as he led the way out of the bathroom.

He went into his closet and threw a shirt at me. It was a silk shirt— one of the ones I used to sleep in. I smirked at the sight of it for a moment before slipping it on. I could feel D's eyes burning into my body, looking me up and down as I put on the shirt.

"Button me up, Honey," I requested.
"I ain't buttoning shit up, short—"
"It's a little hard to button up a shirt with a gun in my hand, baby," I licked my lips slowly while placing the barrel of the gun against his cheek. "Start from the bottom and work your way up."