Strike

Prompt – Write a story about someone seeking revenge for a past wrong. 

Strike  

You'd think that after having someone taken from you, you'd get used to the grief, but it still shocks you. Every, single, time. 

Your gut still clenches, your chest feels heavy like lead whilst your heart just stops. For a beat. 

Then the stages of grief kick in, unapologetic. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. 

I'm somewhere in between anger and bargaining. Acceptance will never come though.  

Some people chase that anger. Wanting the rush of adrenaline that comes after and the ringing in your ears. Like jumping off a very high bridge, into a deep pool of water. Submerging you from all sides. Suffocating you.  

Once the revenge in done.   

It's peaceful. 

It's not easy though, but you have a choice. You can let the feelings that seem overbearing drag you down to the pit of the pond; where many things lay lost and forgotten. Memories. Or you can kick and break your way free. Fuel yourself on the burning rage pumping through your veins and fight back. 

Harder. Stronger. Better than before, and make sure that when you make the first strike. You make it count.  

That's what I do. Most times.  

I get my revenge.  

Now is one of those times.  

He slides below me, looking different than I last remembered. The dark stormy sky's whirling outside matches his sunken and shadowed eyes. A tidal wave. The other half of mine.  

The grey streaks in his hair had two years ago turned him into a silver fox, now seemed rugged and unkept. Outgrown. And his body, that once stood tall and proud, now lay sprawled on the ground, gasping in uneven breaths of musky air. I wonder what he feels when he for once, is the lone looking up to me. 

Though this isn't the only difference today.  

Two years ago, he stood here, bloodied knife in hand, hovering over her body like some Grim ready to whisk her away. To where was uncertain. It was a beautiful evening.  

This time, I was the one with the knife. And I was the bloodied Grim tonight. Judge and jury. Finally bringing justice to all those, to us, who he killed and used. Who he wrecked and manipulated. To those who he mortified and terrified. It would not only be me his death brought satisfaction to.  

Oh, how the mighty fall.  

The window was open, and the coldest and loveliest breeze flew in, tickling my bloody face. Fuelling my fire. The sounds of thunder and snaps of light continued.  

His hand, blotted in our mixed blood, literally, clutched to his broken, dripping nose. His other hand clutched the abused torso, where black and blue fresh bruises grew. 

He would know pain.  

"What do you?" He gives a pitiful gasp for air. "Want?" 

The question startles a laugh out of me. How could he not know? Or is he just acting for time. Or did he genuinely not recognise me? How sad. Then again, who would recognise a face covered in his own blood.  

"What... do I... want?" Using a kitchen cloth to wipe the gore as i walk forward. He struggles back. One leg bent in a 90-degree angle, the other scrabbling for grip on the floor. His attempts to escape were futile. Only one would be walking out this door tonight. 

His back hit the cooker still on from his late-night cravings. The smell of crispy rice pudding wafted through the air, and mingled with the tang of blood, making it all the more sweeter.  

"I want, to see your face when you're humiliated." I raise my knife hand in the air for emphasis . 

"Hurt." I point it to his stabbed body, slowly bleeding out.  

"Dead?" He croaks.  

This halts me. No shit, Sherlock. Honestly, you think the first punch and two stabbings would've given it away by now. 

"What do you think?" I say with a raised eyebrow.  

He laughs weakly. Next moment spluttering blood.  

"Just like, just like your mother. You are." His eyes seem glazed and far away for a moment. Now this just won't do! The only time he can make those eyes is when he's a decaying corpse at my feet. 

I strike. Hard.  

Knocking his face down onto the hard tiled floor. His head makes a sickening cracking sound. Hollow. 

In his confusion I pounce.  

We scrabbled for a bit, like we used to when I was very young. Only this time it was not for fun. This time, I would win. Victor and victorious.  

I secured my legs to hold down his arms whilst the knife tip gently cut into his throat, drawing out a few beads of blood. A pretty crimson. More blood pools from behind his head, circling him in a bloody halo. Well, out of the two of us he was the religious one.  

His eyes were wide in shock, but that's wrong. Only Ma was allowed wide eyes. The eyes of a mother. A warm strong tea colour. Now long gone in the process of decay as she lay in her coffin next to her first-born. How dare he make those eyes; when he was the one to put them there.  

He put them all there, and many more who never got the chance to have a proper burial. Their corpses lost in the ash and dust mixed in the air, all around us. We're probably breathing in them as we speak. 

Our next words were a whisper. Me and all the dead bodies he left in his wake. "We want... I want... revenge."  We stare into each other's matching eyes and for a moment I doubt. 

If I kill him, I'll be the only one. Selfish I know, but a hard truth. A truth that is outweighed by the uglier truth. That I'm the last one because of him, and if I don't do this now, he will be the only one left. He's done it before. He will do it again, and given a chance, he'll make sure it hurts.  

He will make it count. 

I guess it isn't just eyes we share, Dad. Power and Possession. Both dangerous in their own rights. Though you let yourself succumb to the addiction of complete control of those around you. You allowed your craving for power to tamper with your relationships. Your Possessions. Your life, leading you to killing them all with bruised knuckles, bloodied knifes and smoking pistols. You let your power overrule your possessions. I let my possessions take over my power. It's too bad you killed them all. Now I have to kill you. To strip you bare and bloody and leave you to slowly die out.  

Or so I thought. 

Just like the games of chess you made us compete in when we were younger. 

My blade pierces through your neck, lightly. And the cool muzzle of your gun presses into my leg. Sneaky. 

We're in a stalemate.  

The four walls are our only witnesses.  

I cock a grin and his toothy smile back in bloody.  

A sneer and snarl. 

It was just like a game. Playful in our attacks.  

We strike.  

With the clap of thunder, a shot goes off. 

And with the flash of lightning, a knife rips through flesh. 

We made it count.