raised by wolves

When I open my eyes, I realize that I am inside the convenience store, still with the machete clutched tightly under my arm, inside my coat. I see the clerk, the one who unwittingly feeds me every night, eying me suspiciously. He thinks I’m shoplifting. I must be crazy, hallucinating. The clerk is small and Mexican-looking, with dusky features and a complexion like bricks downtown. He’s squinting at me down his nose. I don’t remember coming in. How have I been acting since I got here? I must be crazy.
But I still feel it. The calm is still there. I feel as light as a feather.

I make like I’m contemplating a purchase, casually glancing over the various bags of styrofoam chunks they pass off as potato chips, to make some attempt to appear normal, to let the clerk know that I’m not a threat. I would never dream of stealing from him. I am not the type to bite the hand that feeds.
I hear the bell on the door jangle and look up to see a man in a black ski mask and a leather jacket walk through the door. I notice peripherally that it is still light outside. I notice immediately that the man is also holding a gun. He’s holding a big gun, shiny and deadly, the kind someone pulls on you and you shit your pants no matter what. He holds it out in front of him with both hands and yells at the clerk to empty the register.
The clerk is caught off guard. He was too busy looking at me, watching me to make sure I wasn’t stealing. And the man in the mask doesn’t see me at all. It’s like I’m not even there.

The clerk opens the register and with heavy hands and a grimace that could freeze a man’s heart cold in his chest, begins filling a small paper bag with the register’s contents. He doesn’t take his eyes off the end of the gun. He swallows hard and finishes emptying the drawer. This place is too small to have a security system, probably not even an emergency alarm for the police. The clerk folds the paper bag around the money the same way he would as if the man with the gun were buying a carton of milk, or a soda and sandwich. The man with the gun still hasn’t seen me. I hear the words and feel the lightness, and my body begins moving all on it’s own.
I remember riding through the countryside on horseback, my armor weightless around me, a part of me, a second skin, just as the sword at my hip was as effortless to use as a third limb. I remember the feeling of the wind, the sound it made blowing past my ears inside the helmet.
I hear this sound even clearer as the blade, the machete with the green gilded handle drops in front of me. Swinging the machete feels like moving in water, easy, fluid.
The gun falls to the floor with two hands still clutching it tightly.
The man falls to his knees screaming, staring at his fresh new stumps. The man looks at me through his ski mask and I smile, knowing that today, I have acted righteously, I have brought justice into the world. By my hand…
When he sees the smile on my face, the man panics and gets to his feet and runs (I expect) like he has never run before. He will not come back, and he will never rob anyone again.