Apples and Bananas

Chapter 2

Content warning:

This chapter contains graphic depictions of violence, injury, and blood. descriptions of wounds and medical care, and strong language throughout. Themes of gang violence Cassandra being an ass. Guns, drinking, and substance abuse. (if I left anything out be sure to tell me!)

Cassandra POV

BANG BANG BANG.

I opened my eyes with a scowl, blinking a few times to adjust to the dim light of the apartment.

BANG BANG BANG.

"OPEN UP, I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE!"

Groaning, I rolled out of bed, my feet hitting the cold floor. I rubbed my head, wincing. How much did I drink last night? I stood slowly, fumbling for the gun I kept on my dresser. I wasn't about to rush for whoever was pounding on my door at—whatever ungodly hour this was. They could deal with me in boxers and a sports bra.

BANG BANG BANG.

"HURRY THE FU—"

I yanked the door open, cutting the voice off mid-shout. My landlord stood there, red-faced and looking like he was about to blow a fuse. I felt my eye twitch.

"Do you have any idea how much fucking money you owe me?!" he spat, shoving a finger in my face. "Hand it over now, or I'm kicking you out!"

I rolled my eyes. We'd had this conversation too many times. I yawned.

"I told you, I don't have it." My voice was flat. "You'll get it when I have it."

His face flushed an even deeper shade of red. "Three months!" he snarled, stepping closer. "It's been three fucking months! You either pay now, or you're out. And I've had several complaints about the noise and the smell." He wrinkled his nose in disgust. "You fucking reek, and so does this place."

Another step forward. His finger jabbed into my chest.

"Get my money now."

I narrowed my eyes, shifting my weight against the doorframe. "Ehhh, don't have it."

He looked like he was about to have a stroke, but before he could spew more bullshit, I shoved the barrel of the gun into his mouth. His eyes went wide, the color draining from his face.

"Ah, no noise," I said, shaking the gun slightly for emphasis. "Or I'll blow your brains out."

I pulled the gun back, but not before watching the fear flicker in his eyes. He swallowed, but kept his ground. "Fuck that, I'm calling the cops! I'm done with you!"

Wrong choice.

Before he could react, I grabbed his collar and slammed the gun back into his mouth, hard enough to break teeth. The sound of them cracking was oddly satisfying.

"You'll what?" I sneered, my voice low.

He tried to push me away, mumbling something around the barrel, but I wasn't listening.

"You'll get your money when I fucking have it, and guess what? I don't." My grip tightened. "You move, and I'll paint the wall with your skull. Got it?"

Tears started streaming down his face, probably from a mix of fear and pain. The sight never got old—seeing that raw terror reflected in someone's eyes, knowing they were at my mercy.

"Call the cops, and I'll kill them too. Then I'll find you. Are we clear?"

He nodded frantically. I shoved him back, watching as he crumpled against the wall, clutching his mouth and scrambling to gather his broken teeth. Without looking back, he ran.