Page 3

Theo

Ten Years Earlier

Blood drips slowly, sliding into my eyes and blurring my vision as a puddle of crimson spreads lazily across the hardwood, pooling around my bare feet. Chest heaving, I fight to relax my clenched fists, barely registering the dull throb of my split knuckles. Cold, lifeless eyes stare up at me; an empty reflection of the cruelty that once imbedded in every heavy line wrinkling his tired features. Sobbing pierces sharply through the fogginess clouding my brain, jolting me back to the blaring reality lying at my feet. He finally got what he wanted from me. Glancing down in a detached manner, I observe the red that will forever stain my soul, as the darkness starts to slither inside and settle deep in my heart.

Present Day

“An eye for an eye” . . . the words on the paper echo in my mind, tattooed under my skin, like the crimson blood staining my black soul. “An eye for an eye. . .” My punch lands, and I feel the satisfying crunch as bone and cartilage gives under the force of my fist as my hand connects with his face .

“Tell me what you know.”

A harsh laugh escapes the dying man’s lips, blood pouring down his battered face as he spits at my feet.

“Tell. Me. What. You. Fucking. Know.” My breathing is labored, not from the exertion of beating him to a bloody pulp, but from the rage howling within me like a hurricane, bringing destruction to everyone, and everything that dares step in its path. If left unchecked, I know my inner fury will become all-consuming. I take a deep breath, forcing a calm that I do not feel.

“Why should I fucking tell you? You’re just going to kill me anyway.”

There is a weariness in his eyes, despite the defiant tilt of his head. He knows he is already a dead man, there’s no point in denying him the truth.

My lips purse as I tilt my head in response, as if considering his words. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I might just kill you anyway. . .” voice trailing off, a heavy silence fills the space between us. “Then again, there are many different ways a man can die. For instance, I can rip off his fucking fingernails.”

Using my pocket knife, I dig the tip beneath the nail of his pinky finger, and with one quick motion, rip the nail from its bed. Screams fill the air, and I wait patiently for him to quiet, jagged breaths heaving from his chest. “One at a fucking time, then shove splinters under the nails of your toes. Let them slowly fester until your body is ravaged by infection and you beg me to kill you. . .

Or, I could shove a fucking wrench down your throat and watch you drown on it.” Flashbacks fill my head, another body, another life taken brutally in retaliation for what was taken from her . From me. I force the thoughts to the back of my mind, trying to focus on the present. The bleeding, sobbing wretch tied down before me. “Or, I could give you a clean death. Let you die with dignity, with less suffering. All you have to do is tell me what you know about the letters.” Another flick of the knife, another nail ripped out of its bed.

More screams fill the air. “Alright. Alright. Just stop. Please, man. Just stop. I- I’ll tell you what I know!”

I pause, the sharp point of my knife just kissing the nail of his next finger. “Well? Go on, then.”