Disclaimer: The characters, Beatrix Kiddo, Vernita Green, Lawrence Bell, Nikkia Bell, and any other characters from the Kill Bill universe are the intellectual property of Quentin Tarantino.
Author's Note: All of the other principal characters, and background characters, are owned by me. All rights are reserved.
Kill Beatrix: The Revenge of Nikkia Bell
My name is Nikkia Bell. The summer I saw my mother die I was four years old.
"When you grow up, if you still feel raw about it, I'll be waiting."
Her words felt like a jagged spear thrust into my heart and ripped out with the same brutality.
As my mother lie dead on the kitchen floor all I could remember was rage. It shrouded my eyes like a veil of smog. Yet, somehow I could still see.
When I heard the gunshots I ran down the stairs with the speed of a jack rabbit. By the time I got to the kitchen it was too late. My mother's body
lie lifeless at the feet of the tall blonde woman, Beatrix, polishing her sog. After she yanked the blade from my mother's chest Beatrix thoroughly wiped the knife-like it had been infected with some vile disease-with an expression of gleeful contempt.
Beatrix was like a wraith, tall and lanky, with the agile gait of a cat. She sauntered about like she owned our house. Her clothes were stained with blood, and from the scars on her body I could tell my mom had given her a good work out. Some people might find her attractive, but I thought she was an ugly bitch. Her nose was crooked, her eyes were too far apart, and for some reason she reminded me of big bird on Sesame Street. The one thing that stood out to me was her hair, that scraggly, beautiful, blonde mane of hair. It was the only thing that I found lovely about her. Maybe it was my hatred of her that made me find her physically repulsive. I don't know. All I know is that someday I am going to scalp her and keep that pretty blonde hair as a souvenir.
Beatrix saw me standing at the door the moment I opened it. I stood as still as a desert cactus. My body was paralyzed with fear. I wanted to run, but I couldn't will my legs to move. So I just looked at her. Her beady blue eyes bored into mine like a power drill. When she uttered those words and walked out the back door my heart fell into the pit of my stomach. I cannot begin to describe how horrified I was. When it was only me and my mom, Jeanne, I felt like someone ripped out my stomach, threw it on the ground, and danced on it with steel-toe boots that had spikes attached to the heels.
I could not even catch my breath. I ran to her fallen form and tried to wake her up, but it was to no avail. She wasn't breathing. My mother's body was coated in blood. All I could do was scream. I kept on screaming until Mrs. Fletcher, our next door neighbor, heard me and came running. Mrs. Fletcher, a tall, thin, pretty blonde woman herself was a teacher at my school. She and my mother were good friends, and when she saw what had happened she yelled louder than I did. The police came, and I told them everything I knew. But, Beatrix had vanished, just like that. They had no record of her. She was like vapor; there she was, and there she wasn't.