My brass knuckles. My thumb brushes over the finger-holes and I notice a small spot of very old dried blood I must have missed when cleaning them off all those years ago… Slipping my fingers through, it’s a perfect fit. I feel like Cinderella in her goddamn glass slipper. My mouth quirks again, devious grin widening as I hold up my weapon. And for some sick, twisted reason, I find myself muttering, “Daddy’s home.”
