Terribleminds flash fiction challenge: http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2016/03/04/flash-fiction-friday-seven-deadly-sins/
Seven deadly sins: I’m to choose one (I chose wrath, because, yumm, wrath is juicy) and write 1000 words or less. Chuck did a blog post a few weeks ago regarding use of short sentences and sentence fragments and how they can lead to breathless pacing. Tell me if you think it works.
Warning- as you will find in many of my flash fiction pieces, triggers are abundant. These things bring out the evil in me. Everything about this has pain, unresolved frustration, this is a nightmare scene. It is the aftermath of a rape. You have been warned.
Shame. It knows no logic, recognizes no truth. It only begets more shame, painting blue curlicues on an emotional canvas, always coming back to me. My fault. Somehow, I’m supposed to accept that the rape was my fault. I always do.
We were friends, once. Geez, I never knew, you know, that he was LIKE THAT. I still can’t accept it. The physical pain, yea, it was bad. The fact that I was stupid enough to be the victim, though, is something in myself I can never forgive. He said I wanted it. Maybe he thought that was true, maybe I made him believe that.
I’ve always been a strong man, but lately I haven’t been able to get out of bed. My body isn’t broken, but something’s broken in my head. Once I realized this, that my head was broken, I found the tool I needed to set things right. Motivation? No, that’s not quite the right word. A defense? Maybe. Getting rid of the perpetrator may be the necessary prescription to lance the festered wounds in my psyche. Pain, anger, and guilt might be banished with the simple taking of a life. His final exhalation breathing new air into me. Or, as the devil in me says, maybe I’m just using big words to justify revenge. That word, revenge. The only word that makes me want to rise, and revisit my life.
Revenge is a gateway word, like alcohol is a gateway drug. Words like revenge lead to other words, like violence, like murder. Words lead to actions. Actions lead to consequences.
I should kill him. That’s what I should do. But is that what he deserves? Do I deserve the guilt, the trial, the possible punishment? After all, couldn’t it be said that I wanted it? That I brought all this on myself? Dammit, there I go again, blaming myself. Nope. Never again. The days of blaming myself are over. Doing something about it-those days have begun.
Planning. All it takes is a plan. With the plan, my emotions awaken. Flames warm a frozen conscience. But I have no conscience about what I’ll do to him. Fuck him.
Skulk outside his garage on a rainy night. Awaiting his arrival. Mist halos the porch lights behind me. Every car that passes on the streets plucks my fear and excitement like fingers on guitar strings. The ultimate revenge.
I gathered cigarette butts from a Waffle House ashtray this morning, and I gently press them into the dirt. “Reasonable doubt,” I explain. Insurance in case I get caught. Somebody else’s DNA at the crime scene.
I wait in the mist for the twin spotlights of his sports car to burn holes in the night around me. Hold my wrath in check, ready to lash out when the time is right. Lance the wound.
At last, he arrives. The giant door lifting slowly, rumbling in response to his remote.
He drives in. I crawl in behind. You can’t see me, but I see you. Aluminum bat ready, this will be the sweetest home run ever hit. At last, I’ll see the fear in HIS eyes.
The car door opens, shoes click on concrete floor. Deep breath. Now or never. Goodbye, life of self-pity. Goodbye guilt. I’m taking control, bloody fucking control.
Launch out from behind car, swing bat, shatter bone. That’s the plan. But wet feet gather little purchase on smooth concrete, and my launch becomes a marionette fall, the bat rings against the floor to roll under the car. I lunge at his legs, the element of surprise still on my side…
His knee meets my nose half-lunge. Helpless on the floor, like a turtle on its back, I try to resolve the blurred image of the garage ceiling. I must have been knocked out, my mind drifting in the current. At last I have the rudder again, awareness returning at its own pace.
The garage door is closed now. He has the bat. I’m on my clammy back on cold concrete. He leans over me, smug. “Knew I’d see you again someday, lover. You want to come inside?”