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Goddamn it, I never should've gone along with this witness protection crap, and I sure as hell shouldn't have snitched to the cops. Frankly, it's all gone to hell. I grunted to myself as I shoved clothes into the damn washing machine, my hands all dainty and fragile. They used to call me "Body Negative" for a reason – everyone who laid eyes on me left with a sour taste in their mouth. My regular gig was bouncing heads for the mafia, and now, here I am, stuck in China, playing the role of some housewife.
I despised every single bit of it. This cockamamie witness protection program turned my tough-as-nails body into that of a scrawny Asian chick – the complete opposite of who I was. I had to swallow my pride and accept that I was now some subservient wife to this jerk of an Asian pencil pusher I couldn't stand. I swear the cops sent me here just to screw with my head. And to make it worse, I can't even speak English anymore; I'm stuck jabbering away in Chinese.
I scowled at my reflection in the washing machine's glass door. Long, silky hair hung down my back, and I couldn't stand it. I missed my old, no-nonsense haircut that used to be my trademark.
The thought of the evening ahead made my stomach churn. My husband, that pain-in-the-ass clerk who I couldn't stand, would be back from work. I had to play the part of the obedient wife, a role that made my blood boil. I couldn't shake the feeling that the cops sent me into this life as some kind of sick punishment.
Every moment of this new life grated on my last nerve. From the makeup I had to plaster on my face, to the cooking I had to pretend to be interested in, and worst of all, these damn boobs on my chest that served as a constant reminder of my powerlessness.
My anger simmered just below the surface, and it took all I had not to snap. I missed the days when I was respected and feared, not stuck in this domestic nightmare.