"Bitch," the drunkard muttered.
He flung the bottle in my direction, but his staggering feet betrayed him. The glass slipped wide, crashing against the floor behind me. Shards scattered, and a razor edge bit into my heel.
His curses grew filthier as he lurched forward.
Without thinking, I bent down, fingers closing around the jagged neck of the broken bottle. The fractured glass glimmered under the dim light like a cruel little dagger.
His face loomed closer. Too close.
With a sharp cry, I thrust the glass into his chest.
"AHHH!"
The sound tore from his throat as blood erupted, seeping into his shirt. He staggered backward, clutching at the glass embedded deep in his flesh. His eyes locked onto mine, wide with shock and hate, before his body folded and slumped against the railing.
I remembered what my coach once told me: "Attack any vital spot, and a man's strength will vanish. Leave him weak. Leave him helpless."
