Number 17

She was tossing in her suitcase, a scraggy linen sack, as she could feel the inside stitching from the exterior, the outside, where a left side pocket was, she knew its existence barely, as the encounter of an object in it caught her by surprise. A cold, metallic, polished surface, from what her touch could tell her.
No recent memory on it; but then, her mind unreservedly galloped to a guess, unusual, though not for her, in that moment, of a weapon, a gun, it could have been.
She hesitated, not pulling her hand back, fascinated by the danger, hence keeping on brushing that surface, as a circus tamer would do with a wild beast, when the two walk face to face in circle, studying each other. Domestication, even if her eyes were instead lost on a trivial corner of the floor, as a form to maintain that arm quite, or, to make it approve her using it. What for, someone might have asked her, her mind was already elaborating an answer considering the empty room around her, free from dangers as it was the, even if busier, street outside. Then, the epiphany on where to find the potential victim crept up her spine, of her body, which had never felt so alive.
As a dream she had to wake up from, she inhaled air, started breathing regularly again, now she remembered placing a big lock for a previous trip in that pocket, about three months before, thus she closed the zip quickly, nervously, troubled.

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