After the Revenge

After the Revenge


ACT 1 Revenge

He didn’t look so tough now. The old man's aged face was covered in blood, his left eye was bruised and swollen shut removing all the mysticism that had once surrounded the dying man who laid on filth and dirt that covered the abandoned warehouse floor. David was wearing his best suit, dark grey and tailored for his thin body; he had bought it with the last of his money specifically for this occasion. He stood over the monster that had haunted his dreams for as long as he could remember. A silver coloured pistol hung in his right hand, representing his instrument of revenge; four of its chambers were still loaded with deadly projectiles waiting to be unleashed.

The old man’s face rested on the floor, his blood mixing with the dirt creating a sickly brown-coloured mud. His heavy breath stirred the dust from its resting place on the ground, raising it from its long undisturbed sleep, whirling it in the air, and returning it to the earth. His eyes stared vacantly as his life giving blood slowly dripped from a gunshot wound in his gut. Plasma poured from his body on to the ground that was now fouled by his bodily fluids. David could hear the old man’s wheezing breath; it thrilled him. He felt powerful for the first time in years. He wanted this moment to last for an eternity, to enjoy it forever. He circled around the dying man; he felt like a predator toying with its prey. The tiger knew he could finish him any time he wanted to, and knowing that this man’s life was in his hands was the greatest thrill he could have ever dreamed.

“You don’t remember me do you?” David's voice sounded as strong as he felt. He could hear the deep resonance of his masculinity reverberating off of the bare concrete walls. “Fifteen years ago you destroyed my family, you destroyed my life.” The tiger circled his quarry, “your carelessness killed my parents.” David had practised this speech a thousand times over the years, he knew exactly what he was going to say when he finally had the man responsible for his parent’s deaths at his mercy.

He savoured this moment, relishing every bite, every morsel. He took in the smells, the old man’s fear was palpable over the other scents, the blood the dust paled in comparison to it and something else as well, another smell under the rest that David couldn’t quite place. It didn’t matter.

“We met briefly once you and I,” David rehearsed this speech so many times that it flowed from him, cascading over the old man and obliterating his soul. “But you probably don’t remember. It was a long time ago after all and I was only a child.” He chose each word carefully to leave a strong impact on this creature so he would go into his death knowing the damage he has caused. David smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes, it merely exposed his teeth. He wanted to put fear into his prey, to look strong, to weaken the old man’s power. “My parents were the world to me and you took them from me. Your life is a small price to pay for what you have done. I should destroy your world, make you suffer like I suffered; take everything from you like you did me” David felt strong, he was power, he was might.

“Please,” said the old man weakly, looking up from the ground filth, dirt, and mud stuck to his wrinkled face; his voice barely above a whisper.

David stopped his soliloquy abruptly; he wasn’t expecting him to speak, not yet anyway. The way it played out in his mind the old man would just lay there in awe and turmoil as David ripped out his heart with his words. David didn’t know what to do now.

“What?” he asked the old man, not sure what to say.

“Please,” he repeated.

David made time for the old man to beg and plead for his life later but this was too early; he was ready to belittle his pathetic appeals and to mock his sad pleas for life, but this was something different, this was softer, genuine.

“Why?” asked David. “Why should I let you live?”

“Please,” repeated the old man, his head returning to the blood soaked ground that served as his pillow, his eyes lost in an abyss.
The old man was about to die sooner than David had planned. He leaned closer to the old man’s face turning his ear to better hear his soft words.

“Please,” breathed the old man. “Don’t hurt my family.”

David’s strength drained out of him, he was no longer the tiger. He suddenly felt chilled, his legs weakened and he nearly collapsed. What family? What was the old man talking about? This monster, this creature of darkness should be alone. No woman would dare marry such a beast and spawn his children.

“Your family?” asked David, but he didn’t get a response. The old man was dead.
The smell, the smell in the air bothered him. Blood and dirt and something else. Something unpleasant. David moved away from the body as he finally recognized the smell of shit and piss the surrounded the old man; it permeated David's essence.

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t going the way he wanted. He didn’t feel the way he had imagined he would. He never finished his practised speech, the old man died before he could beg, and he didn’t feel the satisfaction he had expected. He has a family; he wasn’t supposed to have a family, had a family, he corrected himself. The air felt suddenly thick in here. The smell was too much for him. David ran for the exit and pushed his way through the door roughly and fell to his hands and knees. Breathing heavily he clawed at the dirt and vomited.
It spilled over his hands and splashed onto his clothes. Over and over he retched until there was nothing left but bile. He tasted the sour acid and partially digested food in his mouth and spat. He stayed on the ground heaving with nothing coming out of him for some time. His muscles gave out, he fell. He tried to miss his pile of vomit but failed. He lay on his stomach, his right arm soaking in his breakfast. Partially digested eggs and toast mixed with his bodily fluids and warmed the earth. Sweat poured freely from his body, soaking his clothes and dripping on to the ground feeding the earth.

Time passed. An eternity went by unnoticed; galaxies were formed and destroyed; creatures created, evolved, and then extinct; the sun died and renewed. An older David stood, his legs threatening to collapse under his weight but he managed to keep to his feet. This was not how he imagined it; this was not how his revenge was supposed to have happened. Nonetheless, he was determined to finish it. He went back into the room where the body laid. The body, it was weird to David to think of this monster that hunted him for so many years as a body. A body is powerless, harmless, it is a thing. Why then was he afraid? The old man was an inanimate object now and nothing more, and yet…

His hands shook more violently the closer he got to the body of the man he had just killed. He couldn’t look at him; something about the way his frail body remained unmoving frightened David more now than he had when he was alive. Trying not to get too close David picked up the red plastic jug of gasoline that sat off to the side and walked to the body still avoiding looking at it. He opened the top and was assaulted by the toxic fumes. He upended the jug and emptied the flammable substance over the body. The liquid splashed on to his clothing adding to the stink that already surrounded him like a dark aura. He dropped the jug next to the body and looked at anything but the old man on the ground. He suddenly remembered an important part of his plan. He reached into the body’s back pocket of the shit and piss stained pants and pulled out his wallet, depositing it in his own inside jacket pocket; he didn’t want to leave any identification on the body. Trying to regain some composer and to recreate the fantasy he envisioned, David gingerly pulled a pack of matches from his pants pocket and stepped away from the flammable fumes and struck a match, it lit.

“Burn in hell,” he said and threw the match at the gas soaked body.

The match flew through the air and extinguished before it landed in the gas. Nothing happened as the blackened useless matchstick lost its flame. David stood there for a moment feeling yet another disappointment. He tried it again.

“Burn in hell,” he repeated less sure of himself. This time in one movement he struck the match and threw it. This time it caught. This time it held. This time he was rewarded with a loud whoosh as the body burst into flames. The air was immediately filled with the smell of burning clothes, hair, and the sickly sweet smell of scorched flesh. David fought the urge to vomit again, not that there was anything left in his stomach. He watched the body burn in fascination for several minutes as the flames danced on the body, consuming everything it touched. The heat became too unbearable, he left the fire to do its work alone. He was done; finally after all these years. After all the time and energy he exhausted to find, lure, and kill the man who had done him so much harm, he was finally done; revenge belonged to David. Triumphantly, he headed to his car. The faded blue hatchback was dirty, rusted, and old, but it was all he had. He sat in the driver’s seat as the early evening light slowly disappeared, relishing in his victory. Satisfied he started his car put it into gear and drove home.

The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon as David pulled his shitty hatchback into the shitty parking lot of a shitty motel. The obnoxious red neon light that was meant to lure passing motorists like a fabled siren had just turned on in anticipation of the coming nightfall. David parked his car, got out, and shut the door causing flakes of rust to shake free and fall gently to the earth like auburn snow. His room was on the ground floor allowing him to easily slip through the door unnoticed. After shutting the door, David stood for a moment in the quiet darkness. The unnatural light from the neon sign combined with scarlet sun light poured through the only window. The room was the colour of blood and it made him think of the old man.

He was still wearing the same clothes he wore earlier. The suit was filthy and it stank, that was not part of the plan; he had meant to change before returning to his room and destroy the clothes and any evidence on them, burning them with the body. Instead here he stood still wearing the same suit and shoes, his clean clothes in the trunk of his car. He thought of going back out and getting them but decided that it was too risky; he might be seen. Without turning on the electric artificial light, David headed to the bathroom and closed the door.

The darkness was nearly absolute. Light clawed its way in from under the door and spread delicately through the room, barely enough to keep the gloom at bay. He turned on the light and the room was abruptly filled with a blinding electric white radiance. He gasped and almost screamed; his legs felt suddenly weak and nearly gave out underneath him, bringing him to the unforgiving cold tile floor. For a moment David saw the old man standing in front of him, looking as he did moments after his death: tired, old, and bloody. But it was just his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He let out a quiet nervous laugh. He leaned in towards the mirror to get a better look at himself. His dirt streaked and blood splattered face looked pale and sickly, and his eyes were surrounded by two black holes with two heavy bags hung under them. He looked like a man who had just killed someone and that was the last thing he wanted to look like right now.

He stripped naked. The cool air tingled his warm skin causing goose bumps to form over his entire body, his balls retreated into his abdomen. He piled his dirty clothing in a corner of the bathroom and stepped into the shower. The warm water washed away the day’s filth. He cleansed himself with the unscented mini soap left by the motel’s staff. For a long time he stood under the flowing warm water as it washed away his former life creating a new being, a new existence free from sin. David stepped out of the shower as if it birthed him anew. Naked and wet with his skin glowing pink from the warmth; he stood as the water steamed off his body. He swaddled himself in motel towels and left the safety of the bathroom. Still damp and nude David crawled under the blankets and slept like the dead.

The bright sun was harsh in the morning of David's new life, but it wasn’t the sun that woke him but rather the vulgar ringing of the phone that lay beside the bed on the nightstand. Groggily, he answered. It was ten AM and the voice on the other end of the line was reminding him that checkout time was in an hour; David had only paid for two nights and couldn’t afford another. Sleepily, he dressed in the same suit from the night before still piled on the bathroom floor where he had left it; his only other change of clothes were still in the car. He packed his few belongings and placed them in the back of his hatchback. He started his car and paused. He didn’t know where to go from here. After all his planning, after all these years of waiting and dreaming for the moment of his revenge, he never even thought of what to do next. The old man has been a part of his life for so long that David didn't know anything else. Through all the rough times in his life, all the pain, all the fear the thought of his revenge is what kept him going, drove him on; now it was gone. He turned off the engine and wept until he had no more tears. When he finished, he wiped the tears from his eyes and the snot from his nose with his bare hands started the engine and drove, his eyes still puffy and red.



ACT 2 Cause and Effect


David woke in the back seat of his car; his head feeling too big to be real and his stomach threatening to discharge its few contents. It’s been almost a year to the day since he killed the old man and he could still smell his blood and shit lingering on him like a phantom. David's shitty blue and rust coloured hatchback was parked near an overgrown field. Dirt, weeds, and chunks of old concrete were all that was left to decorate the vermin infested meadow. There’s not much left to the neighbourhood near the field; most of the condemned houses in the area are abandoned and so run down that not even the most desperately homeless would squat in them. He slept in his car rather than one of the empty houses. He was frightened by them; they stared at him, their vacant gazes telling him he was not welcomed within their warm rooms and protective walls, so he slept in his car.

David got out of the back of his car spilling empty beer cans of some god-awful but cheap brand of beer and empty clear plastic bottles of an even cheaper and more god-awful brand of vodka on to the overgrown earth, and walked a few paces before he stopped to piss. He scratched his scraggly beard and ran a hand through his shoulder-length unkempt greasy hair. The silver coloured pistol in his pocket rested comfortably against his right thigh like a security blanket. A mouse scurried by and he aimed for it, just getting its backside with his stream of warm piss. He shook the few droplets off his dick and zipped up his pants.

With every step back to the hatchback he felt the familiar thump of the pistol bouncing against his leg and the familiar thud as his head threatened to explode. He’s kept the gun in the same pocket every day since his revenge only taking it out at night to check to see if the four little canisters of projectile death were still waiting to be used; they were, they always were. With one hand David leaned against the blue car and vomited on to the ground, his puke splattered onto his shoes and the bottoms of his already filthy pants. It’s time to earn a living, David thinks to himself as he heads towards the city.

…

Leaning over a trash-can, David dug for whatever treasures he could find that were discarded by the decadent masses, hoping to find anything that can be sold or consumed. He reached further and further into the garbage pushing the worthless items off to the side to expose more waste. Nearby, a line of dejected vagrants stood in the shadow of a cathedral looking for a meal, and maybe something more. Father Christopher stood at the entrance, welcoming the needy men and women to his sanctuary. His black vestments and white collar the only clean items among the unwashed crowd. The stench of soiled bodies stirred with the wind and stuck to every surface including the Father’s robes. Father Christopher is was young and very naïve, truly believing that he can save everyone in this line, that true salvation awaits those who are seeking it; no, it’s more than that, he believed it to be his divine duty to do so.

The cacophony of David's treasure hunt captured Father Christopher’s attention, and he walked over to him. “Hello David.”

“Hello Father,” he responded without looking up from his task.

“We have hot vegetable soup today and Mrs. Miller has been baking bread for the past week. It’s quite delicious and we have plenty for everyone.”

David looks up at Father Christopher standing under the mammoth church and its enormous shadow.

“No thanks Father,” he said and turned back to the trash can.

“David, please,” said Father Christopher. “We have plenty to eat and comfortable chairs for you to rest. You are always welcome here. There’s no need to be out here.”

“God doesn’t want me in there,” said David, his attention was still on the job. He found an empty water bottle and put it into a black garbage bag half full of discarded bottles and cans to be traded in later for pocket change.

“All are welcome in the house of God,” replied Father Christopher in earnest. “There is no sin so great that He cannot forgive it. Jesus died for your sins David. Know that whatever you’ve done or think you’ve done God forgives you, but you must also forgive yourself.”

David stopped for a moment and looked up at Father Christopher. He knew that this man was one of the rare few who genuinely wanted to help others and believed that David could be saved. Some men do good for a personal gain; it could be to impress others, or for some perceived spiritual reward, but this man was different. Maybe that’s why David rejected him. If this man had been a little more selfish he would have no problem in taking advantage of the proffered help. But sadly Father Christopher was a genuinely kind and giving man. This man is a fool, David thinks to himself. Father Christopher mistook David’s eye contact for acquiescence.

“Well,” he said cheerfully. “If you won’t come inside at least let me get you some food so you can take it with you.” Without waiting for a reply Father Christopher ran excitedly past the unwashed crowd and back into the church.

He moved quickly to the front of the church where the sisters and volunteers were serving bowls of red-coloured hot soup and tearing off pieces of bread to feed the hungry underneath a huge altar of Jesus being crucified on the cross. The Father filled a Styrofoam cup with some soup and quickly placed a piece of bread into a brown paper bag. This is Christ’s body, he thinks as he tore the bread with his hands. He raced outside to find that David had already gone. A sister saw him leave the church and followed. Dejected, he turned from the trash can and found the sister standing in front of him, blocking his path. She took the bag and cup from him and smiled sympathetically, a smile reserved for those who fight a losing battle but refuses to give up, or maybe he just didn’t realize he’s losing.

“David again?” she asks already knowing the answer.

He nodded looking back, hoping that he had returned but seeing he hasn’t.

“Some souls just don’t want to be saved,” she said handing the bag and cup to one of the hungry.

“Then why does he come here every day to dig through that trash can pretending not to look at the church?” he asked.

…

David carried the full bag of valuable cans and bottles over his shoulder through the streets. The music of thin metal cylinders banging against glass bottles announced his coming everywhere he went. The familiar weight of the bag bounced against his back with every step represented his temporary wealth that would get him temporarily drunk and rendering him temporarily less sorrowful. He stopped at every trash can on the way to the depot looking for more treasures to add to his hoard. He never asked passersby for money though, there’s something about that step that is still beneath him that his diminutive pride wouldn’t let him take.

…

It was nearly sun-set when David returned to his home/car. A plastic bag with twelve cans of shitty beer and a small bottle of cheap shitty vodka was carried in his filth stained right hand. Sitting on the hood of his car, David cracked his first beer and took a deep pull. The sweet bitter amber fluid burned as it travelled down his throat and soothed his soul; what soul? He killed it a year ago. In two swallows he finished the first beer and reached for a second. The sun was low in the horizon, its scarlet glow filled the early night sky and reflected off the broken windows of the abandoned houses, the glass becoming red luminous eyes watching David’s nightly humiliation.

The sun had set completely. David leaned on his car with one hand while the other held his dick, pissing on his hatchback’s flat tire. His twelve empty beer cans lie scattered around the car’s hood. Only the bottle of shitty cheap vodka was left. He put his dick away, turned too quickly and fell, slipping on a rock wet with his piss. He collapsed against his car barely stopping himself from landing in his fresh pool of piss.

“Fuck,” he yelled, and standing he kicked the offending rock, sending it flying away from him.

Picking up his vodka from the hood of his car and hiding it in his jacket pocket David walked into the darkness.

…

It was late. The sun has long since set, and the house glowed in the dark, the electric lights pushing away the blackness, keeping the monsters at bay. He sat under a tree hidden from the little bit of light created by the rows of street lamps and the houses. His bottle of vodka was untouched in his hand, light dancing in the clear liquid. The grass was worn where he sat, pushed down from his nightly visits. He could never see much inside the house in spite of it being well lit, only a woman’s silhouette as it slowly moved from room to room, and a small child’s following after. He knew enough about those living in the house to be able to put a face to each of the shadows in the house: the wife and daughter of the old man.

Every night he had come here to watch them and to wallow in his misery and self-loathing, knowing what he took from them and fearing the consequences. For the first several months he watched as the wife cried every night over her murdered husband and burnt body, and for the first several months David's heart was ripped out and shredded every night. He drank his vodka from the bottle, finishing half the bottle in his first swig. He waited as the reward of the strong alcohol warmed his body and dulled his senses. He felt better, well maybe not better, but less like a piece of shit, and that was something.

He didn’t know why he came here every night, it was torture, but something compelled him, it was like penitence; there is no redemption without pain. David was quite drunk but that wasn’t anything new. The old man’s wife, the old man’s widow he corrected himself, was still up while her daughter slept. He could see her moving from room to room, she never seemed to sit still. The TV was on but she didn’t appear to be watching it. The door opened and she stood outside with a small dog on a long leash. The dog sniffed around trying to find a place to piss.

…

“Come on already,” said the old man’s widow from her place near the door.

She held onto the long leash as her dog Chuck tried to find a suitable place to pee in spite of every place being the same as every other place. Sandra was getting impatient with him; Chuck, she never liked the name, thought it was a dumb name for a dog but her husband had insisted that ‘he looks like a Chuck’. Now she realized he was right, he did look like a Chuck.

“Come on, hurry up,” she said, but Chuck just looked at her, wagged his tail and continued to sniff the ground.

Finally he found a place he liked, peed and ran back into the house. Sandra followed. The TV was turned to the sports highlights channel like her husband used to do in spite of the fact that she hated sports, it was also turned a little too loud just like her husband used to do too. She poured herself a glass of red wine and stood at the entrance to the living room looking at the TV but not really seeing it. She moved to the kitchen and drank half her glass of wine.
There were still dishes in the sink so she finished washing the last plate and bowl before draining the sink and drying her hands on an old dish towel. She picked up her glass finished the wine and filled it again. She moved up stairs to the bathroom. She wasn’t sure why she moved through the house this way, not staying in one room too long. It was almost she was chasing her late husband’s phantom around the house, that maybe she’d find him in one of the rooms. Maybe that was true, maybe one day she’d walk into the living room and find him watching TV like nothing was wrong.

‘Hey dear,’ he’d say as she enters.

Him sitting there, so blasé as if he hadn’t been dead for almost a year now, murdered in some random act of violence, his body burned in some abandoned warehouse. Or maybe she’d find him in the kitchen putting the last of the dishes away or making something to eat. She could come up behind him and hug him and kiss the back of his neck and smell his hair. She liked the way his hair smelled even after he worked all day; it was musky and kind of woodsy. That doesn’t quite describe it, she thought and decided to stop thinking about it.

Or maybe he’d be standing in front of their daughter’s bedroom, the door open just enough for him to see in, listening to her sleep, watching the covers move up and down slowly with her breathing. She opened the bathroom door and half expected him to be standing there peeing into the toilet, water and urine splashing on to the brim. He’d turn to her and, feigning anger, he’d yell at her to get out with just enough of a chuckle in his voice that she’d know not to take him seriously. Then he’d chase her to the bedroom, her laughing and screaming the whole way, and they’d make love on top of the bed sheets like they used to when they first got married nearly ten years ago.

But he was never in any of the rooms of the house because he was gone; his charred remains buried in some cemetery. How would she act if she did find him? she wondered. Would she just sit beside on the couch as he watched TV as she used to? Put her hand on his knee and give it a little squeeze like she used to? Would she want to? She walked to the living room and emptied her third glass of wine and thought for a moment that she saw him sitting on the couch, but not looking like he did when he was alive but like he did when they found him. His blackened charred skin pulled away from his teeth creating an unnatural smile, his hair burned off and his scalp flaking onto the ground, he was facing her, filling the room with the sickly sweet smell of burned flesh. Her heart raced until blinked and she saw he wasn’t really there. Chuck looked at her from the couch, his little tail wiggling and his ears up wanting attention. She moved to the kitchen and drained her glass.

David watched as she would move from room to room. The old man’s wife had a melancholic attractiveness to her, somehow the sadness enhanced her beauty. She finally went to bed; when David sees the light in her bedroom go dark he leaves his place from under the tree.


ACT 3 Final revenge


David woke in the backseat of his car; his head feeling too big to be real and his stomach threatening to discharge its few contents. He got out of the back of his car, spilling empty beer cans of some god-awful but cheap brand of beer and clear plastic bottles of an even cheaper and more god-awful brand of vodka on to the overgrown earth, and walked a few paces before he stopped to piss; he scratched his scraggly beard and ran a hand through his shoulder-length unkempt greasy hair. The silver coloured pistol in his pocket rested comfortably against his right thigh like a security blanket. He took out his dick and pissed on the filthy ground. He headed back to his car, leaned against the hood and vomited onto the ground. Well, time to get to work, he thinks to himself. It’s been one year to the day since he killed the old man.

…

Father Christopher stood outside the church welcoming the unwashed masses as they came to fill their bellies with the hot food waiting inside, and to maybe find salvation while there. As he welcomed those in need he kept an eye on the untouched trash can near the church. David was late. He had always come around the same time, but an hour has passed and there was still no sign. The line of needy was nearly at an end and Father Christopher would have to go back into the church and help with the cleanup. This was unusual. Normally he would take this as a good sign; normally he would think that he has found a way out, but David was different. Father Christopher was worried.

…

Sandra walked into her house after dropping her daughter off at daycare. She had to work today but called in sick, needing the time alone. Today was the one year anniversary of her husband’s death. She was worried about how she would act in front of her daughter; she was up all night imagining herself crying in front of her daughter uncontrollably, and that was unacceptable. But so far nothing; she didn’t feel sad, she didn’t feel like she was going to cry, she just felt like she was in a daze; nothing felt real for her today. Every day, every day she had thought of him, couldn’t get him off her mind and yet today she had to force herself to think about him. Her mind was constantly wandering to anything but him, hell, even the laundry seemed to take precedence.

She felt restless and began her ritual of wandering around the house aimlessly. Eventually she found herself in the living room looking at photo of their wedding day. She thought that this would work, would bring the tears, but instead she just felt pathetic. She saw her reflection in the glass of the picture. She looked older and sadder than the young happy woman in the picture. In the picture, her whole life was ahead of her, she had so much. She laid the frame on the glass coffee table, picture side down, and leaned against the couch and stared at nothing. She let her eyesight wane and the world became an unfocused blur of colours, shapes, and lights. Everything but her own existence disappears for the briefest minute and she found a moment of peace, a moment of clarity before she was ripped back into reality by a knock at the door. At first she didn’t hear it, only aware that something had pulled her away from her daze but not entirely sure what it was. She sat for a moment longer trying to figure out what disturbed her when there was a second knock. She sighed and slowly stood. Why the hell was someone bothering her today of all days?

Sandra answered the door without looking through the window first. She found a dirty, hairy man standing in front of her. He was out of place here in this neighbourhood and there was something unsettling about him, like there was something dangerous about him. She wasn’t afraid though; there was a sad vulnerability to him that made him seem nonthreatening. His clothes were torn and dirty; it looked like he was wearing what was once a suit. The once-grey pants were torn and covered in dirt, his pale bony knees sticking out. His shirt has long since been stained by filth and sweat. His tie was long gone and his jacket had the stuffing sticking out of the many holes. He stunk. She could smell his body odour from inside her house, but she didn’t shut the door on him. She felt sympathy for him; it was his eyes, there was a deep sadness in them.

“Hello?” she asked after a long awkward pause.

He stared at his long worn shoes suddenly shy under her gaze.

“Yes?” she asked feeling unsure if she wanted to hear what he had to say or for him to leave. “Do you need money or something?”

“No,” he finally said. He raised his head a little and made eye contact. “You don’t know me but my name is David and I killed your husband.”


…

David was terrified. More frightened than he has ever been in his life and wanted nothing more than to run away, but he didn’t. He stood there looking at the woman whose life he had ruined. She didn’t say anything after his confession but just stood there staring at him, her face unmoving, expressionless. He thought that maybe she didn’t hear him and was about to repeat himself when she spoke.

“What,” she said; it wasn’t a question but more of an exclamation of disbelief. Her voice was barely more than a suggestion of a whisper but to David it was a shout.

“My name is David and,” she interrupted him before he finished repeating himself.

“I heard you, it’s just,” she paused. Her voice was still soft and yet perfectly audible. Her face remained the stone carving from before, unmoving and emotionless. “Why?” she asked in genuine interest.

“He was responsible for my parent’s deaths and I wanted revenge,” he said.

“What? Revenge?” she didn’t wait for an answer. “I mean, why are you here telling me this? What do you want from me?” her voice raised slightly as irritation crept into it.

“I,” he stammered. “I want to know what you want me to do.”

“What I want you to do?” she repeated.

“Yeah,” he said. “I want to know what you want me to do with myself. Should I turn myself into the police, because I will. I’ll tell them everything. I’ll confess to what I did and I won’t ask for leniency or anything either, if that’s what you want. I’ll dedicate my life to righting this somehow. I’ll do whatever it takes, you know, like helping people in Africa or something. Or you could get revenge on me and kill me if you want; I’ll make it easy and won’t put up a fight or anything. I can give you a gun. Or I can kill myself and be done with everything, if that’s easier. I can just disappear if you want; wonder across the country and continue to be nothing. Really, I’ll do anything you want” He practised this speech countless times and it came out exactly how he wanted it.

David didn’t really know what he wanted her answer to be or what he was expecting her to say, but he did intend to do whatever she wanted without argument. If she wanted to kill him the way he had killed her husband he was prepared for it. She could take him to an empty place shoot him in the stomach and burn his corpse; hell, she didn’t even have to shoot him first she could just light him on fire and roast him alive. He would endure the torture if that was her choice.

An eternity passed as David stood before his judge and possible executioner waiting for his sentence. Stars collapsed and atoms reconstructed across the universe. Nations were born, destroyed, and born again. A now older David and Sandra stood across from each other staring at the other from either side of an endless chasm. Her in the house and him just outside the doorway.

She ended the eternity of silence and gave him his command.

“Kill yourself.”

And she shut the door on him separating his life from hers forever. David turned and walked away preparing for the task, never looking back.

…

Sandra shut the door on her husband’s murderer and collapsed to the floor, falling against the door. She cried out in pain; a year’s worth of repressed anger and sadness flowing out of her in a single shout. All the grief, all the loneliness pouring out of her like a tidal wave. And she cried for the first time since her husband's burnt body was buried in the earth.

Sandra suddenly felt a wave of guilt overwhelmed her and she realized that she had made a mistake. She stood quickly and opened the door. She had to stop this man from killing himself. Suicide was not the answer. She knew that her husband would not want that, that he was a man of peace and that whatever he did in his past he had made up for a thousand times over. She had to stop this man from doing what she had ordered him to because her husband would want her to. She acted out of anger, out of revenge. But it was too late she realized after opening the door and seeing the empty world. The world wasn’t empty, not completely. On the doorstep where the man was just standing laid a wallet, a man’s wallet, her husband’s wallet. Gingerly she picked it up and brought it back into her home and shut the door.

…

David walked to the church not stopping at his usual trash can but instead he went right to the front door. He entered without hesitation, he didn’t feel the usual trepidation that he usually felt near the church; after what he has just been through, everything else just seemed easy in comparison. The line of the usual hungry masses were gone for the day, ready to return tomorrow. The sister David had seen hundreds of times, though he never learned her name, was standing just inside as he entered.

“David?” she said recognizing him immediately.

He was taken aback not expecting her to know his name and thinking that Father Christopher would be waiting for him by the door; this was stupid he knew because there was no reason for him to be here at this precise moment, but still he expected it.

“Yes,” he said to her. “Is Father Christopher here?”

“No he’s not David,” she had a soft and caring voice. A voice that made him immediately fall in love with her, not in a sexual way but more like the way a son loves his mother, in a way that made him desperate to please her and make her proud of him, but it was too late for that.

“Oh,” he said and turned to leave.

A soft hand on his arm stopped him and he was unable to break away from her inescapably gentle touch. He repressed a shudder.

“David,” she said. “Please don’t go. You can stay here with me if you want. I can call him. I now he wants to talk to you, please just wait, he’s only five minutes away and we can talk until he gets here.”

This was true temptation. He was Jesus in the desert and she was the devil offering him bread.

“No,” he said releasing himself from her grip. “I can’t.” he couldn’t even look at her. That might be enough to make him stray from his path, his destiny.

“Can I tell him something for you?” she asked in her motherly voice that tore at his heart.

“Tell him,” he said without facing her. “I’m sorry.” And he left God’s house.

…

David stood next to his shitty blue car parked next to a rodent infested field. The judging gazes of the empty house watched him as he prepared for his finality. The silver coloured pistol weighed heavily in his hand as he watched the sun dance on the barrel. For the first time in a year David was sober. He felt strong knowing what was to come next. His confession out of the way and a new purpose in life, David was ready. He checked the on the bullets one last time, they looked excited, finally to be used and cocked the gun. He put it against his temple and felt the coldness of the barrel and pulled the trigger.

…

Father Christopher came into the church ready to feed the masses. One of the sisters hurried to him as soon as he entered.

“Yes?” he asked before she could speak.

“David,” she said. “David was here yesterday looking for you.”

“Really,” his voice was excited.

“Yeah,” she said. “He wanted to talk I think. I think you finally reached him.”

Father Christopher smiled brightly.

“You know,” he said. “I think today is going to be a good day.”

He opened the door to the awaiting hungry feeling truly hopeful and waited to find David at his trash can pretending not to look at the church.