Three Bullets

They wore silver thread strung with dead men’s teeth. Arrogance. They waited in a misty square near the docks. She walked past looking new and unbroken. Her hair was long. They tore her away from the lamplit street. 

There were three bullets in the gun their leader carried. One was for to put through his brain if he was caught by fungus. One was for the girl’s father, his rival. She would deliver it with a sweet smile and a sharp tug on the trigger or they’d take her skin away. One was for her, to put wherever she wanted.