- WHO: Monroe's POV (modern day)
- WHERE: Backroom of her father's 1920's style dinner theater.
- WHAT: Monroe is examining the display case containing the slugs removed from Bonnie Parker's body that her father purchased as gangster memorabilia.
“Hello, Bonnie,” I whisper. “Did you have a lot of crazy chicks at your school, too? Is that why you dropped out?” I laugh, feeling silly talking to a dead girl. I hear the familiar click and swirl of the safe combination knob in the back room as I pull the slug box toward me.
Take one, my inner voice urges.
It would be kind of cool to touch one. Like touching death head on. I look back toward Dad and think, why not? Just for a second. I attempt to pull the edge of the clear plastic seal, but it’s stuck tight. I slide a fingernail under the edge of the sticker and slowly pry it up, careful not to rip the seal itself.
A rush of bubbling nervous energy makes my fingers tremble as I lift the cover. A puff of stale air with the scent of rancid meat assaults my nose. I breathe through my mouth as I pull out one of the silver gnarled bits. Is this the bullet––the one that actually killed Bonnie Parker? I spy a tiny spot of dark brown nestled between two twisted nibs of steel. Is that her dried blood? Could it be locked inside here after all this time? I lick my finger and touch the spot.
It smudges, turns brownish red. Holy shit––it is her blood! I rub it a bit harder when something sharp pierces my fingertip. A bright red dot from a tiny jagged cut sprouts on the pad of my index finger. I ram my wound into my mouth and glare at the slug.
That’s when I realize that Bonnie Parker’s blood was on my finger.
And it's now on my tongue.
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