Page 188 of Invisible Bars
I didn’t care. That wasn’t about cleaning; it was about remembering.
Then suddenly… he stopped moving.
Chi nudged him with his boot.
Nothing.
“Damn,” Chi muttered. “Little enginecouldn’tafter all.”
The owner was sobbing now. “Please—please don’t do this! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean?—”
I turned to him with ice in my eyes.
“Your words today destroyed a woman—shattered her in ways you couldn’t see. You made her relive a time in her life she’s been fighting to escape, a wound she’s been stitching shut for years. You don’t get forgiveness for that; you get judgment.”
“No—don’t—please—!” the guy wailed.
Initially, Chi and I had agreed to kill both of their asses the same way, but with that nigga being on the heavy side, I knew it would take a little longer to gut him—and time was something I didn’t have that night.
“Chi, you know how to work an espresso machine?” I asked, sporting a mischievous smile.
Chi stepped forward, cracked his knuckles like he was about to whip up a five-star latte, and flipped the hot espresso machine on. The metal hissed and steamed.
“Hell yeah! You remember when I was a barista for two weeks 'til I cussed out that customer for asking for ‘oat milk with attitude’? Muthafucka thought I saidgoatmilk and called thehealth department. It was then that I knew—working with the public or just another muthafucka in general wasn’t for me. I almost caught an assault charge over a caramel macchiato and a side eye.”
I chuckled low, shaking my head as the machine whirred to life behind him.
Chi leaned in close to the trembling man strapped to the chair and taunted, “You want that with cream, foam, or regret?”
I untied the owner, made him stand, then grabbed him by the back of his neck and slammed his face against the counter twice… then another time. The third time, though, his nose shattered with a wet crunch. Blood spattered across the steel, and his teeth cracked like dry twigs on impact. He was screaming now—ragged, animal sounds—as I yanked his arm and forced his hand flat on the espresso burner.
The sizzle of flesh meeting metal filled the air, his skin bubbled, and the smell—burnt hair, scorched meat—turned the room into a hell kitchen. He howled, twitched, and tried to pull away, but I gripped harder.
“Stay still, muthafucka” I muttered, eyes low, voice steady.
His knees buckled and body convulsed as the raw skin of his arm fused to the hot metal of the espresso machine. The hiss was drowned by his scream. I flipped him around, gripped the back of his neck, and drove my knee into his ribs with full force.
I heard the crack.
“You should’ve just handed her the damn tea,” I gritted near his ear, voice cold enough to freeze the blood already leaking from his mouth.
I took the blade from Chi— unsanitized and still slick with ol’ boy’s blood—and dragged the tip of it across his throat.
Not fast or clean—but slow, deep, and personal.
He let out a wet gurgle and his body twitched as blood soaked his shirt. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water,desperately trying to speak—beg maybe—but no sound emerged. Only the sharp, sickening rhythm of a man realizing that death was real and near. Finally, his knees gave out. He dropped to the ground, shaking violently, his eyes wide and unfocused. I knelt beside him, watching the life drain from his gaze, and whispered:
“Now I lay you down to bleed, I pray the Devil sows your seed. If death should drag your soul tonight, tell him Gatez turned off your light.”
And then… nothing.
I glanced at the massacre.
Blood pooled across the tile and bodies slumped like discarded trash.
I stood in the center of it all, chest rising slow—calm in the storm of my own wrath.
“Before we go full Fourth of July barbecue in this bitch…” Chi said, squinting around the café. “What kind of tea did sis come here to get?”
