In the dark hole of the city, no one threw newspapers up over their heads and ran for the nearest overhang. No one had an umbrella conveniently on hand, or would have planned for one. While citizens on the other side enjoyed lattés and espressos in expensive cafés, drove home to their families, and saw the rain as refreshing, those on the darker side saw it as yet another discomfort.

There were very few lights in the darker side of the city, and even during the day the crumbling streets and buildings of disrepair had a kind of darkness cast over them. There were no street lamps, no baskets of flowers; people did not walk together down the streets, unless they were trading or planning to exchange blows. During the day, the buildings were not busy with business; most often they were used as safe holds to hide from the lights of day. It was a stained and dirty place, the underside, the place no good person went to or spoke of. Most pretended it did not exist.

But it did … and the thunderclouds knew this. Not even this slum named Hampton Square could hide from the rain.

..
..

For the longest time Malisa was unaware of the rain. She could feel its cold caress, how it soaked her clothing and wrinkled her fingertips, but was not aware of it all the same. Shock had gripped her senses in its numbing hold, and very little attracted her attention at this point. The only thing that drew her gaze was the object before her, glittering with pearls of rain on its silver surface, black grip digging into her palm.

A rivulet of water poured down her face, running down the side of her nose, over her lips, off her chin. It had plastered her hair to her neck and shoulders, her clothing to her body. She shivered from time to time, skin turned pale and blotchy from the cold, but none of that penetrated the haze her mind had generated to protect itself.

But it did no good. Shock had paralyzed her limbs and fogged her mind, but she could still remember why she was where she was. Why she hadn’t brought an umbrella or a raincoat. Why her hands shook when she thought of how the pistol she held came into her possession – and why. The memory repeated itself once more …

..
..

Malisa met Jason on a Friday night at one of the rowdier pubs in town. He had caught her attention as soon as she saw him, with his thick braid of black hair, strong Indian features, and a dazzling smile. The girls she had gone out with quickly noticed her lack of attention, and pried until she admitted what – or who – she was watching.

“Go for it, Malisa,” one of them encouraged. “It’s been so long since you’ve checked out a guy like this. Go ask him his name!”

They all cajoled, pushed, and teased her until she had finally given in. That was when she had crossed the bar and asked his name, not feeling half as bold as she acted. It became the first of many beginnings.

Malisa returned to that pub every Friday night after that, to watch Jason and occasionally speak with him. Just sitting next to him was an incredible high; she always felt she was a plain girl, with her mousy brown hair and muddy eyes, but he spoke to her as if she were – special. And once she got to know him a little better, she jumped like a rabbit at his offer to go on a date.

However, not everyone was quite happy with Malisa’s new ‘friend’. One of her co-workers at the data processing company she worked for recalled rather vividly what another woman had told her.

“Wendy dated Jason not that long ago,” Marlena had told her quietly, when no one could over-hear their discussion. “She started coming into work with bruises on her face, and scratches. One day she came in with a broken arm. That’s when she told me Jason had been beating her. It got so bad she had to quit and move to where he couldn’t find her.”

“That’s a lie!” Malisa had exclaimed heatedly. How could her sweet Jason possibly do such a thing? She had seen no such sign of any will on his part to abuse her. How could Marlena say that? Wasn’t she a friend? “Why do you say that?”

“Because it’s true. Please be careful, Malisa. I don’t want the same thing to happen to you.”

Not long after that Marlena left the company, and they never spoke again.

..
..

Six long months passed, and Malisa grew increasingly satisfied with how her relationship was going with Jason. Every evening after work he would meet her at a nearby café and discuss their plans for the night. On her birthday, he came to her work with a bouquet of flowers and enough chocolate for her whole team. Frequently they went out to the movies or out to dinner, to shop or to simply walk the streets, arm in arm. She could not remember a time when she had been happier.

But such things are not to last long. The company in which she thought she had been secure downsized, and she was one of the first to go. With no job to support her, no money to pay rent or insurance, Malisa despaired of what to do. Many other companies felt the impact of an economic shadow, and even simple retail stores turned down her applications. She was on the verge of being kicked out of her apartment and possibly ruining her credit when Jason offered his own home to be hers as well. After all, weren’t they a couple? She could live with him free of rent and hassle, with no pressure to find another job. With an even greater certainty of the lasting qualities of their love, she accepted.

Only too late did she realize the truth behind Marlena’s words, spoken to her so long ago.

She had lived with him for a week when she noticed things that hadn’t been apparent to her before. He often came home drunk, and would barely speak a word before he sequestered himself in his bedroom, remaining there until morning. In concern, she would await his emergence, but when he finally came out it was as if there was never anything wrong in the first place, and he would laugh off her questions and worries. Perhaps she was merely imagining things, Malisa thought. After all, she didn’t know everything about him. He had his own moods, his own ways of doing things. She was, in the case, the stranger, as long as she had known him. Was it really her place to question him?

It was when she had decided that no, it was not her place to ask him why he behaved the way he did, that the horrors began.

..
..

Two weeks had passed, and she had only the smallest hope that she may be hired at a nearby department store. Returning to the apartment in late afternoon from an inspiring interview with the store manager, she found Jason home unusually early. The lights were off in the hallway when she entered, but the front door was unlocked – Jason left the door unlocked when he was home, so surely he was there. But her instincts cautioned her; clutching her purse tightly to her side, she moved quietly down the short hallway into the living it opened up into. They lived in a city after all – one couldn’t be too suspicious of the possible actions of thieves.

The shades on the windows across from her had been tightly drawn against the rays of the setting sun, the blinds tinted a faint pink from the light behind them. A single lamp in the far corner was on; it had been knocked off the table and had fallen onto the floor with the lampshade cocked crazily to one side, sending odd shadows up onto the wall and ceiling. All other lights were off, and the doors to the bedrooms shut when normally they were open. The darkness lent the room a strongly claustrophobic sensation.

Jason sat on the couch facing the television, and though he stared at the screen with a slack expression, the set was not turned on. One hand, draped over the arm of the couch, held an empty beer bottle; the other was clenched tightly in a fist, knuckles white. He did not appear to have noticed her entrance.

Malisa felt a cold wash of fear run through her, but did not withdraw from the room. Surely, there was something she could do to help … whatever was wrong? Even though …

“Jason?” The words came timidly from her, far more so that she would have liked. “Are … are you all right?”

His eyes shifted to hers in their deep sockets, blood-shot and rimmed with red. They squinted at her, and he said nothing.

“Did something go wrong today? Anything I can h-help with?” She took another step into the room, noticing with dread the stutter in her voice. She shouldn’t be afraid of him; would he be angry that she was?

“Yes.” The fingers wrapped around the neck of the beer bottle loosened, and it dropped to the ground with a dull thud. The man rose slowly to his feet, the shadows shifting on his angular face as the light from the lamp on the ground lit him from below. “Something … went very wrong.”

“W-what?”

Her head slammed back against the plaster as he lunged forward and pinned her shoulders to the wall with more strength and speed than she had thought a drunk could contain. The force behind it stunned her, though not as much as his actions had. She stared up at him through watering eyes, unable to understand the look of rage on his features. What had she done?

“You,” he hissed, the planes of his face twisted into something she did not recognize. “You come here, you drain my money away, my hard-earned money. Spending it while I’m trying to keep a roof over our heads. I off my place to you, and what do you do?!” His voice rose with every word, until he was shouting, spittle raining on her face from the force of his words. “You rob me, and think I won’t see?! I know why you haven’t gotten a job! You expect me to support you while you waste my money on go knows what?!”

The blow that came next was both expected and unexpected. Though it hurt, the force of his open hand against her cheek, the stumbled fall to the ground, the stinging pain as she burned her knees and palms against the carpet – it seemed to reach her from a far-away distance. Her mind could not wrap itself around the idea that he had hit her, that he had spoken to her with such hatred. Even as he spat on her and walked into his room, slamming the door behind him, she stared with disbelief and shock. What had happened? What had she done wrong? Where had he gotten such an idea? How could she make it better?

Morning came, and she waited his emergence from his room with no small amount of fear. Would he strike her again? Would he want her to leave? The scabs on her knees from the fall the night before were a reminder that his anger was not a dream. What would happen now?

She did not expect him to timidly open the door and stare at her with hurt, tear-swollen eyes. She did not expect him to look at her with fear.

“Jason?” she whispered in the morning silence.

The man who had been so angry and forceful the night before slowly entered the living room and walked to her, kneeling on the floor before her and shifting his eyes away from her. “Malisa, I – “ he stared hesitantly, “ – I’m so sorry, I … I was drunk, I wasn’t all there … please, Malisa … I never meant to do it … I’ll never let it happen again … please …”

Joy shoved the fear from her mind, and she hastily drew her lover to her. Of course it had been nothing; it had been a simply case of alcohol affecting his mind, and that could be corrected. Of course she would forgive him. He promised it would never happen again, so it wouldn’t.

Would it?

That very night it happened all over again.

The beatings progressively got worse, starting first at slaps, to being thrown into furniture, to being punched, to being with rulers, dishes, and other household objects. After a time the bruises became bad enough that she stopped going into public, and even turned down the job offer at the retail store she had once had such good hopes for. Even to herself she could not admit why she stayed; every night he would come home drunk, abuse her in some way while accusing her of outrageous things, then in the morning apologize and ask for her forgiveness.

It was always the same; nothing changed, only what he hit her with and where. The excuses were the same, as were the threats and accusations. Even her false and tired words of forgiveness had become the same thing, repeated day after day. She could have easily left, had she wanted to, had she not been afraid to; nothing but his repeated words of change tied her to him, and the belief that one day, she could make him change. But a part of her realized it was a belief in vain … and yet, she never tried to leave him, though deep inside she knew he would never change, and the beatings would never stop.

..
..

It had been exactly one month since the day Jason had first slapped her when he came home with the gun.

Malisa could not keep her eyes off the object hovering before her; its sleek silver surface, black rubber grip, and the single round hole that stared at her as she stared at it. The gun’s polished metal reflected everything around it with a strange; warped intensity; every time Jason waved the gun about to emphasize his slurred threats, she imagined that the world reflected on its surface was another place, another time, where things were different. Perhaps on that side of the metal surface, she had never met Jason. Or perhaps Jason was different. Who knew …

That night was one of her better nights – for a change her deranged lover was content in merely threatening her with his new weapon, exchanged in a pawn shop for the ring he had once planned on proposing to her with. There wasn’t any furniture to be thrown against or over that night, and when he disappeared into his bedroom, she silently gave thanks to the silver pistol. For one night, at least, she could go without pain.

However, it appeared that even that little pistol could not divert Jason’s anger for long. The next night, when he came home so drunk she could smell the alcohol on him when he walked in the door, he pulled the gun on her. She had gone beyond the stage of numbness at this point, and could only stare down the barrel pointed at her. Would this be the night where she finally died?

..
..

The sun was late in rising the next day, and Jason had all ready left by the time its honeyed rays could creep through the windows and illuminate Malisa’s room. In the gun’s metal she could watch the sun rise through her window, watching the way the colors twisted and turned on the rounded surface. Her hands did not shake when she held the gun, not like Jason’s had the night before. That shaking had been all that saved her life.

Lifting a hand, she rested her cold fingertips against her temple and closed her eyes. She could still feel the way the bullet had breezed past her, so close the heat of its passing had burned her. Only the shaking of his hands had spared her, the alcohol that had turned him from gentle and loving to a true monster. Her eyes opened again to look down at the object he had thrown to the floor with a curse when he missed his mark. A gun was a weapon, and wasn’t good or evil; it was only used as its master dictated. She wasn’t afraid of this gun. It wasn’t the one who had wanted to hurt her. No … that was Jason.

There was a muffled knock. Her eyes moved from the gun to the living room she could see from her door, and the knock repeated itself. Someone wanted in. Shoving the blankets off her knees, she wrapped her arms around her stomach and wandered to the apartment door, her nightgown brushing against her thighs.

Outside stood the apartment owner, a large Italian man with a mustache that made him look perpetually angry. Now, however, with his bushy brows heavily furrowed, Malisa could not tell if he was angry, or merely concerned.

“You hear a gunshot last night?” he asked gruffly, small eyes moving to look over her head and into the room behind her.

Oh no … that. She froze in fear, staring at the man before her. Had others heard? She had often worried that perhaps those in the apartments around them suspected the abuse Jason rained down on her. Would Randall kick them out now? Now, would Jason blame her for losing a home as well as hard-earned cash? What could she say?

“No … “ was all she managed to get out before her throat closed in on her with fear.

Randall’s eyes moved back to her and squinted. “You sure? Everyone else did.”

She shifted slightly, shuffling her feet. “I … I was really tired last night. I slept like a log the whole time. Maybe you should ask Jason.”

“Is Jason here?”

“No.” She bit the inside of her lip. “He’s at work.”

The big man stared down at her for a moment longer, his frown so intense that she feared she might break under that gaze and tell him everything. But he finally turned away, raising a hand and waving it dismissively at her.

“Fine,” he said. “You just let Jason know I want to talk to him when he comes back.”

“I will,” she responded faintly, and watched him trundle off down the hallway. She never did speak to him again.

..
..

The law states that murder is murder, whether it be premeditated or spontaneous. The killing of a man is a punishable offense, hanging in some states, a life sentence in others. But what about killing under duress? Is it still murder, or self-defense?

Malisa ran down the streets with no regard for direction or caution, hair whipping behind her on the breeze of her passing. People glared and shouted at her when she shoved past them, but she ignored them all, blind and deaf to the world around her. Night was falling, and storm clouds hung fat and heavy above the city. She wasn’t running from the inevitable rain, though – but she was running from the inevitable.

Her breath was torn from her in gasps similar to a drowning man’s swift and painful, and never enough to satisfy her oxygen-starved body. Her legs burned with each step, the muscles on her thighs and calves, the tendons on her knees and ankles, all set afire from the adrenaline that pumped through her. Her blood sang in her ears, turning all the sounds around her in a dull, high-pitched rush. Sweat dampened the back of her shirt, and her eyes were wide with indescribable fear. She ran.

Sightlessly she ran down the streets and alleyways, her mind’s eye involved not in directing her, but in reviewing the past, stuck in an awful cycle that replayed over and over as she ran. That was what she ran from; not from the rain, but from her memories. Memories, however, are faster than mere mortal legs, and even as she raced into Hampton Square, they easily kept pace with her.

That was why she was sitting in a puddle of water when night fell, that silver pistol clasped before her in her lap. That was why she didn’t feel the cold, or the wet, or the pain of her over-exerted muscles. Too absorbed in the past, in the reflections of the pistol, she simply was not capable of functioning in the present.

It was the gun, after all, that started and ended everything. If Jason hadn’t bought the gun, she would never be here. If Jason hadn’t brought it home, she never would be here. If Jason hadn’t thrown it on the floor, she would never have had it with her. If Jason hadn’t tried to kill her, she would never have killed …

Her mind skipped on that thought, like a record with a deep scratch. She would never have killed … an incomplete thought, but so pregnant with meaning.

She never would have killed him.

There. That was the whole of it. If Jason hadn’t done what he had, she never would have drawn the gun on him and shot him point blank in the face. If he hadn’t given her enough time to get out the gun from where she had hidden it, she never would have seen the look of astonishment on his features … or what was left of them … would never have seen the way the shadows had sprayed on the walls, devouring light … If, if, if. It was Jason’s fault, all of it. Shouldn’t she be angry?

Oh, Jason. Malisa hung her head and closed her eyes, too empty to cry for her once-love. What have I done?

Night had more than just fallen at this point; it had consumed the earth and all the denizens of Hampton Square, including one lost and emotionally traumatized Malisa. Lightning still sporadically danced across the sky, the only light the small slum below saw. Now that the sun was completely gone, there was no longer even a reflection of light in the clouds; it was completely, truly night.

Something in the alleyway, in the darkness behind her shifted; paper brushed against wire, a can rolled across the cement. Malisa’s heart leapt into her throat, hammering away like a wild beast, and her head jerked up and around at the noise. Her poor night-sight had no chance of delving into the black behind her, try as she might. Was it the police, skulking back there, waiting for her to let down her guard, to relax a single moment, so they could snatch her up and take her back to where justice was waiting? Or was it a homeless man, a gangster, slime from the gutter, the being whose home she had trespassed in?

Or was it Jason looming behind her, towering over her – half his jaw missing, a gaping wound that fed the darkness – hands reaching out to avenge his death and reclaim the pistol that was his …

Now all the physical indications of exhaustion broke through her mental barriers, and the pain, cold, and fear all hit her in a numbing rush. Yet another surge of adrenaline sang through her veins, and she staggered to her feet, silver pistol clenched tightly in her hands. No, she wouldn’t let him have her. She had defended herself against him once, and she would continue to do so now that she had the gun to protect her. No matter how many times he came back for her, she’d never let him hurt her again. Never again.

The noise repeated itself, and this time she thought she saw a shadow slip through the dark. Without thinking, both hands drew the gun up and one finger pulled the trigger – once, twice. The gunshots echoed loud in her ears, and each kick jerked painfully back her tired arms. But once the ringing left her ears, she listened hard past her gasping breath … listening to see if he was still there …

A garbage bag rustled, and this time she could see the rat that scuttled away into the darkness.

The fear slipped away from her in a rush, and her knees gave out beneath her. Malisa didn’t even attempt to catch herself as she landed hard on one hip, too tired, too worn out mentally and physically, to even care. A laugh escaped her, harsh and hysterical. It had just been a rat – just a stinking, slimy rat. Like Jason? No, not like Jason. The rat, at least, would do her no harm. Another laugh escaped her, then a sigh. Though the hilarity still bubbled in her stomach, and she desperately wanted to use it to release her tension, she simply did not have the energy for it.

Oh, Jason. What have I done?

She stared down at the pistol again, the rain pounding on the back of her head and sending streams of water to curve around her face and drip off her nose and chin. Little bits of steam rose up from the barrel of the gun, still hot from discharge, where the rain touched it. Such a little thing, but capable of so much. Was there a metaphor there she should be able to grasp? No … no.

Is there any ammunition left? the sudden thought occurred to her. Blinking away the droplets of water on her eyelashes, her fingers moved to the chamber of the pistol without thought, swinging it open and lightly brushing against the six holes it contained. Only one was filled.

That’s odd, her mind concluded at the evidence. Jason only shot one, and I shot three. Did he shoot one before he attacked me? … did he kill someone else … ?

Only one small bullet, perhaps the last of five. Unless the gun had started with six, in which case she despaired for the lost casing. What would she do with this last bullet? What good was it for her? Rat-hunting? No laugh wanted to emerge from her this time. What could she do with this now? Nothing …

Nothing … but …

For a long moment Malisa stared down at the gun, before slowly swinging the chamber shut once more. The rain had slowed at this point, changing the torrents that hand run down her face and body into mere trickles. Her hair dripped and swung heavily about as she straightened and looked out the alley entrance. There was one thing she could do with this last bullet …