I sat on the edge of the bed in the rat hole my landlord called an apartment. The tiny room had seen its share of abuse over the past few years, despite how it had been advertised. But with only a couple hundred American dollars in my pocket when I got off the boat, it was the best I could hope for. My eyes looked around the room; at the torn wallpaper, and the carpet that needed replacing ten years ago, and sighed. Was this what I came to the Colonies for? To die in a shite-hole worse than the one I left? My gaze landed on the revolver sitting on my end table. Old and beat-up, I'd gotten it and few bullets for a song out of a pawn shop that had seen better days. I didn't even know why I bought it, honestly.

I leaned over and grabbed it, the old wooden handle rough against my hand, and looked down at it. It was amazing, thinking about it. Most weapons were designed for something else. An axe could be used for cutting wood, and a knife could be used to serve dinner. The gun, however, like the sword, was unique in that regard. It was purely an instrument of death.

I shook my head, trying to get rid of morbid thoughts, and knelt down to pull on my boots. I stood and took a step, before stopping. I looked back at the gun, laying abandoned on the bed, and dropped it in my tweed coat pocket. Maybe it would be a good luck charm in my hunt for a job.

Sweat ran down my face in rivulets as I leaned back against the brick wall. My breath, or lack thereof, came in gasps. I slid down the wall, my hands resting on my knees. I held a brown paper bag in my hand, so tightly my knuckles were ghost white. The gun in the other hand was shaking as the adrenaline rush started to fade away. Somehow, it seemed to have gained five pounds in the last ten minutes. The moment kept flashing in my mind, over and over again.

The butcher stood behind the counter, at the register, an ugly scowl twisting his features.

"Get out of here," he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "I'm not having a fuckin' Catholic behind this counter."

The words kicked me in the chest. I'd been turned down for a dozen jobs that day, but nothing like that. My fist clenched.

"Excuse me?" I could almost hear the heat in my words.

"You heard me," the butcher said. "Get out."

My hand was moving before I knew what I was doing, and the revolver cleared my pocket. The world narrowed down to just what I saw across the iron sight, at the brown pupil it was focused on.

"This is your lucky goddamn day," I said, not even thinking as I spoke the words. "Get a bag and empty the register. If you leave a single fucking dime..."

Everything else was a blur. The way my lungs burned, it felt like I'd sprinted the full ten minutes. I still couldn't comprehend it; how or why. What the fuck did I do?