A Matter of Revenge

My father was murdered when I was ten.

I watched it happen from the window of our small living room; I stood, I stared, I screamed, and I kept on screaming.

It was not provoked. He was walking towards our house with our dinner for the night, smiling at me as I gleamed back. He’d got Chinese food, perfect, my favourite.

Suddenly a man was beside him, lanky, is all I remember of his appearance. I thought he as hugging my father, until I saw a glint of silver, my father’s face contort as he stumbled to the ground, his eyes glancing to meet mine, the man pulling out the knife only to lung it back in a few moments later…

It’s been fifteen years: a lifetime.

I stand now, outside the prison, watching as he is bundled into a car, off to start his new life ith the security of a celebrity. This is not justice.

I have two choices, walk away and let this man live, or destroy him.

What would you do?

The previous morning

They announced it on the news of Monday the 28th of May; Kevin Gesh to be released after serving fifteen years for murder. He was good in prison, he did his service, kept clean, kept his mouth shut.

I was sat eating my breakfast at the time: cereal, milk, orange juice. I almost gagged when I heard his name. Then they showed a picture of my father “The murder victim”, that’s all he is to the media, something to bring in the ratings: I did gag, I was sick in the sink.

Wiping my mouth clean and splashing my face with icy water, I watched as my vomit and the liquid mingled, spiralling in the centre of the silver basin. I was in disbelief, yet I was not thinking about the murder… the murderer. I was throwing anything around in my head to not think of that. So instead I was thinking about having to use a fork to jam down the remnants of my breakfast which were refusing to go down the drain.

The phone rang abruptly. I twisted off the tap and walked through my obsessively clean kitchen to answer the small phone which buzzed aggressively on the eastern wall.

“Yes,” I answered, possibly rudely, I’m not too sure.

“Nathan, is that you? It’s your mother.” She choked through stuttered breaths.

Shit. I did not need this conversation.

“Yeah Mom, it’s me, what’s up?” I replied pleasantly.

Shit again, not the best of responses.

“Have you not seen the news, Nathan? They’ve let him out, they’ve let that bastard out! He murdered my husband, he murdered your father!” I think she added the latter hoping to get a more enthusiastically maniacal response than my previous.

“Yeah, I just saw it on the news; he’s being released tomorrow morning.” I replied calmly.

The phone went dead.

I wandered aimlessly into my living room and stared out of the large wall dominating window, out onto the quiet road of my cul-de-sac.

I rubbed my hands slowly over my face, pushing my fingers deeply into the sockets of my eyes, feeling the moisture increase, beginning to stream don my clammy skin. Pulling my hands roughly through my scruffy brown hair, bringing them down, allowing my fingers to claw sharply across my face, I collapsed onto the floor: a flurry of arms wrapping around curling legs as I sobbed loudly into my knees.

Wednesday 30th May

I’d slept badly. Woke like a crinkled prune, only grateful I hadn’t drowned in my 4am bath-nap. I’d spent the previous night wallowing in self-pity, hours and hours of a tick-tocking clock, my hands clutching the edges of a soft pillow, clenching it to my face, smothering my eyes and shielding me from madness.

My tears soon fled from sorrow to anger, it was with this rage that I got up, stormed into my black marble bathroom and took a hot bath. Washing away the sweat that soaked my body more than the soothing water did.

It was the dreams that taunted me, teased me, lured me, whilst bathing that inspired the beginning of my plans. I was in and out of sleep, my thoughts battering at me callously. Images of blood, of torture, of Kevin Gesh skinned alive, eyes removed, lids pinned to the brows. The usual things you hide behind your hands from in horror films.

I knew now that I wanted to destroy him, I just didn’t know how. I had never killed before, not even an ant; hell, I’m a vegetarian. But this isn’t blood lust, this is justice, I’m certain there is a difference.

After pulling on my jeans, a grey loose v-neck jumper and near enough matching beanie hat, I strolled nonchalantly to the full length mirror attached to my wardrobe. I felt nervous, my stomach flipping excessively – and I hadn’t even begun planning properly yet.

Besides, killing is easy; torture makes things more interesting.

I didn’t write any more to this story. I had some ideas in mind for where it might go but I never started to fully develop it like other stories I started playing with. I think it might be because the characters are very human in this story, and generally I like writing characters that are a bit odd, but somewhat cute. I don’t know, maybe I’m just making excuses up for not bothering to develop this – or, just being unable to.

In terms of writing, I don’t mind it too much. It’s pretty different to the voice I usually write in, but that made it more enjoyable for me to read. I made a mess of the punctuation and that kind of bugged me a bit. Although, as I keep saying, I’m still far from being perfect with that.

Anyway, this is a short one and a short write up. I’ll blog soon and explain why. It didn’t have a title, so apologies if it seems a bit odd.

Until next writing time machine,


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