This was how she'd spent her days off ever since she'd, well, had days off. In the mornings she woke up to the sound of Black Hayate barking, which generally meant one of two things:
"Feed the dog."
or,
"Walk the dog."
Once both had been accomplished, she'd defrost something simple for breakfast- cooking was too much of a bother, and it wasn't as if she could make much besides toast and the occasional cup of tea. She'd sit facing the window, staring out at the trees against the sky.
She'd walk to the store in the late afternoon, and she couldn't help but notice how she felt almost without her uniform, though she still kept a gun within arm's reach. Years of conflict had made her wary, paranoid at times. Even when she slept, she'd set her pistol down on her nightstand. Just in case—in case of what she didn't know, but better safe than sorry, at least. Many a soldier she'd known had lost their lives due to overconfidence or rushing into situations. She was smarter than that.
Sometimes the clerk at the store would give her a knowing look, a slight smile, especially if they were older women, tired-looking, their makeup usually much too noticeable for people of that age. They'd see the frozen dinners that she'd place down her money for, and they'd nod as if to say, you live alone, huh? No husband? It's okay, honey—men are dogs…
And she'd walk home as the sun began to sink, her bag of groceries occasionally swinging to hit her leg. She could have been anyone on those city streets, anyone going anywhere- but she wasn't. Once you were a murderer, there was no going back to- what would you call it- normalcy, a concept that hardly existed anymore, and certainly not for her. She'd fought the war, but the war had managed to win at least one victory—her childhood.
