Dear Old Friend

I offer a kind smile and hand my remaining two dollars to the taxi driver. He deserves a tip. For the first person I spoke to since being out, he was kind and talked to me like a normal human being. Though he did not know my background, picking me up from the top security jail must have been his first clue. 

The brisk breeze feels warm against my chilled skin. Now since I am out of that hell hole, I ought to be outside more. Thirty five years in a cell really blows – my skin is white as a ghost. 

Leaves crunch beneath my feet with every step, creating a soothing tune to my ears. I walk to the tall maple tree and stand in front of her grave. The stone was small, with the edging chipped off, and moss growing into the seepage of the cracks. I could tell only the bare minimum money was put into the engraving with her name, Emilia Greenburg, and the date April 5, 1988 – the day I was thrown into jail. Through death she escaped the horrible torment of sharing a room with twenty other women, or showering with eyes that took no curiosity to look away, or food that was clearly expired. No. She got away. Death was lucky enough to take her. 

How I missed my dear Emilia. She was my other half, partner in crime, my best friend. Well, I thought she was. Though she taught me a valid lesson–you cannot trust anyone but yourself.  

… 

The mission was going south even before we entered the building. But Emilia insisted that it was fine. She had the better instincts, so I listened to her even though the pit in my stomach told me otherwise. You and me. Forever. Her soft words echoed through my head, calming my nerves. 

We did not mean to kill a few people in the process. Like I told the officer that shackled my hands to my feet, I did not plan to kill that many, it was just how the events of the night unfolded. I tried to explain to him how I was feeling the pain of the others because I lost my partner, leaving me to take the consequences of her actions. Once again, that bastard of a detective did not agree. 

He told me to go to hell – I told him that I was already there. 

So, I ended up with thirty five years to life in prison. And after good behavior, and some pulled strings, I am finally reunited with the world. 

… 

It is not long after staring down at her broken grave, behind me I can hear the crunch of leaves approaching. I don’t turn back; I already know who now stands behind me. I place my hands in the pockets of my coat as I say, “I figured you would come.”

The soft voice says, “Is that why you came? Because you knew I would be here.”

“It is the anniversary of her death. I guess we both wanted to say goodbye to her for the last time.” I sigh loudly. 

The woman, no taller than me, steps to my right, her eyes too locked on the grave, “I find it pretty sad that on your first day out you spend your time mourning over someone.”

I smirk. “So, you have been keeping tabs on me?” 

“I like to know where those who could ruin things for me are.” We slowly meet each other's gaze. I could see the roots of her hair turning gray, as were mine due to the inescapable tale of aging. And I noticed that her eyes were swollen as if she had been crying, not that I cared. I gave up on tears a long time ago. 

“Ahh. I see.” I turned back to the grave. “Do you miss her?”

I could still feel her eyes on me as she said, “One would think, but after she died, I tried not to think about her. I have built myself a good life.”

I lick my lips at the sound of her disgusting voice ringing in my ear. “I have not gone one day where I did not think of her. Not one.” I turn to face her. My eyes locked with hers and my brows narrowed as I looked at the woman who destroyed me. Who ripped out my heart, tore it apart, and left it were the grave stands. “Hello Emilia.”

Her head tilts up, her eyes droop, “Hello Jess.” 

… 

I was not lying when I said that Emilia died. She did. That night she died to me. Stabbed her own self in the gut and left me the knife. That damn bloody knife. How I wept for her as she bled to death in my arms. So, I thought. How delusional does one have to be to truly believe someone is dying before your very eyes? I learned it is pretty easy to be gullible. 

As I cried, it gave the cops enough time to swarm the bank, finding five pronounced dead on sight, including Emilia. They had to pry me from her arms as they pinned me to the floor. I did not care to remember what happened next. Though it was only later when they showed me the photo of her that I knew she was alive. In the mists of the night, I did not see where the knife penetrated her. But from the image I knew that wound would not kill. 

So, I have spent the last twenty years plotting my revenge. 

… 

“Why did you really come?” Emilia asks. 

Ah, the reason. “I want an apology.” 

“An apology?” She asks as if she has no clue what I am referring to. Typical Emilia. 

“Yes. An apology for stabbing me in the back like the bitch you are.” If those three words escape her mouth I will leave and never look back – I will give her the benefit of the doubt. But a part of me wishes that she says nothing at all. 

“Go to hell,” she spits out. The wrong three words. Typical Emilia.

I can not help but smile as I deepen my hand into my pocket firmly gripping the handle of the knife. Honestly, I must thank my dear friend, taxi driver Paul, for offering me his pocket knife – though he did tell me he had too many to count. 

“What are you doing?”

“I am just finishing the job you could not.” Thirty five years, I have pictured this moment. Thirty five years I have imaged the blade in my hand piercing her skin, stabbing the hole where her heart would be. 

I grab her wrist and she resists, but I am stronger than her, much stronger. I pull her back in one swift motion. Emilia's eyes bulge as the blade slices through her skin. As she inhales her breath of air, blood oozes from her chest. I smile. 

I release my grip and her body sinks to the ground slumped over. 

… 

I wipe the dirt from my hands on my coat. Done. I smile at my work. 

The grave reads, Emilia Greenburg. At least now there finally is a body six feet under. No one would think to look for some who were already dead. She got what she deserved. I am only mad it took thirty five years to say hello to my dear old friend.