“I looked at the woman crying over the doll and felt something else. I was sick of people acting against their own interests. Mooing about how to refinance the slaughterhouse. Putting skylights in the killing pen and pretending the bolt in the brain was a pathway to a better field. I paid my bill. Save your fucking pennies for a gun and a history book, I thought.”
“I paid my bill. Save your fucking pennies for a gun and a history book...”
“In many ways I was an independent woman. For years I'd made my own choices, paid my own bills, shoveled my own snow.”
“Every now and then I felt like I was Bill's doll.”
“I had a weapon of my own and I wasn't afraid to fucking use it. And if I died? Who the fuck cared? I put the gun to my head and demanded to be let through. The fucktards shot me.”
“You’re a fucking miracle,” he whispered against my skin and I closed my eyes. I loved that he thought that about me. “I’m a woman,” I whispered back. “You’re an angel.”