Vengeance (COMPLETED)

Part 15

Blood pools beneath my feet, splatters of red decorating my legs. My dress is covered in blood. I scan my surroundings, desperate to find the source of the blood. Limb bodies fill the pavement, piles and piles of corpses spread across the alleyway. One of the bodies shifts, an arm reaching out to me. I lean over to help them, but the hand I extend holds a gun. I shoot the man in the back of the head without a second thought. He falls dead on the floor.

"You're a killer, Erin," my mother appears next to me, wearing the same blood-soaked pyjamas she was killed in. "How could you do this? You're one of them. You're just as bad as he is. You're an animal — a fucking murderer!"

My body shoots up in bed, sweat dripping from my skin. My heart thumps in my chest. I'm in my bedroom, not a single body in sight. There's no gun in my hand or blood at my feet. It was just a dream. I'm okay, I'm okay, I try to reassure myself. What the fuck was that? I had a dream just like that the first night we were back from the mainland after the incident happened — after I killed those men.

I breathe in and out slowly, trying to calm my racing heart. It just won't let up. I swing my legs out from beneath the sheets. They tremble as I head over to the bathroom. I drink a few sips of water, continuing my breathing exercises until my heart settles. The second I close my eyes, I see those bodies again. There's no way I can go back to sleep like this. Instead, I decide to get some fresh air and go for a walk. It helped last time. People were still buzzing around on the ground floor, so it gave me something else to think about.

As usual, my two security guards follow me as I head down the stairs. There are a few men making their way through the hallway, and a group of women whispering by the entrance of the dining hall. It's busier than last time, but strangely quiet. The women eye me curiously. I give them a polite smile and turn to the lounge room at the front of the house — the one that opens up to the outdoor pool area.

"Don't go in there," one of the women says. I shoot her a quizzical look, but my questions are answered when I hear a loud banging noise coming from the room, followed by the sound of crashing. My racing heart returns. I turn to the guards in a panic, instantly jumping to the worst conclusion — is this Vassilis? The guards jump into action, one of them already grabbing hold of me to lead me away, but another woman's words stop him.

"It's Angelis," she says.

"What?" I scowl. Angelis is making those noises? What is he doing?

"Someone's already called Atticus."

I pull myself free from the guards and turn back towards the door. I push it open. A chorus of swear words meets my ears, a mixture of both English and Greek. Angelis stands in the corner of the room, still in his suit from dinner. Tears pour out of his eyes, his face bright red. He takes hold of an artwork on the wall and throws it across the room, the glass smashing as it hits the ground.

"Angelis!" I call. He pays me no attention. He turns to a vase on the bookshelf and tosses it against the wall. The whole room is trashed. The lounge is upside down and askew, the coffee table is smashed, and glass shards fill the floor. He paces to the other side of the room, kicking the ottoman on his way. He's on a rampage. He's not thinking straight. I turn to the guards, ordering them to go get Atticus. He needs to get here ASAP.

"Stupid fucking idiot," he mumbles between a string of Greek phrases. "Should've fucking died... should've fucking killed him..."

"Angelis!" I try again, but it's no use. He carries on, smashing anything he comes into contact with. The pool chairs are in disarray — some broken, some in the water. He's clearly having some kind of breakdown. I want to help him, but I stay back, frozen in place in case he discards me just like he's discarded everything else. I call out to him a few more times, hoping to get his attention at least once, but I have no luck.

It feels like hours have passed when Atticus finally shows up. He bursts through the door, dressed in his workout gear with his hair a mess and sweat dripping from his forehead. He eyes the scene before him, concern written on his face. He glances between me and Angelis.

"Stay back," he warns. I don't move. My feet stay glued to the floor while his head forward, slowly approaches his brother. He says something in Greek but it doesn't seem to work. Angelis continues pacing back and forth, mumbling to himself. Atticus calls out to him a few more times with no luck. He heads closer to him. "It's okay, man. You're okay. I'm going to help you, okay?"

Atticus grabs a hold of him, wrapping his arms around him to pause his movements. Angelis protests for a second, but he's overpowered. Atticus holds him still, reassuring him in their native language. He starts to do some breathing exercises, just like I did moments ago. Angelis's anger starts to settle, instead replaced with a deeper sadness. He gives in to his brother.

"I hate him, I hate him," he cries. "Make it stop. Please, make it stop."

"Come on," Atticus turns to the side, slowly moving Angelis off him and onto the couch. Angelis curls up into a ball, cradling his knees to his chest. Atticus tries to soothe him, running his hand up and down his back, speaking to him in a low voice. Angelis eventually starts to settle. His sobs turn into soft cries, his body still trembling but no longer shaking. Atticus gets up and meets my eyes. He nods me over to the pool area. I take a seat beside him at the outdoor bar, unable to enjoy the view of the beach before us. Both our minds are elsewhere.

"Are you okay?" he asks. "Did he hurt you?"

"No, he didn't even know I was there," I shake my head. "Is he okay?"

"He'll be alright," he says, but his expression tells me the opposite. Atticus pours us each a glass of water, letting out a deep sigh as he takes a sip.

"What was that? What happened?"

"Angelis, he uh..." he hesitates. "He gets like that sometimes. He has some issues with his mental health. He gets upset, starts to drink, gets angry, and well... it all spirals from there."

"And then this happens?"

"Sometimes, yeah, when it's bad. He just loses his shit. It's like he's not in control anymore. He'll destroy everything he comes near and he just repeats these things over and over. It's scary, you know?" he looks up at me. "He talks about hating our dad, hating himself, wishing he was dead... He's never hurt himself before but I know it's only a matter of time."

I've never seen Atticus like this before. He's usually confident and assured. He's fearless and strong. He doesn't get nervous or scared, and yet here he is, riddled with anxiety. He's never had a problem opening up to me, but to see him this vulnerable is brand new.

"I wouldn't have expected this from Angelis." I've only met him once but he's always laughing g and cracking jokes. It feels wrong to see him like this. "Have you gotten him any help?"

"We've tried. He's been to rehab and he's been to therapy, but he can't keep it up long enough. He has a counsellor now, and he's agreed to go back to rehab, just not until we've dealt with Vassilis. He doesn't want to miss it."

"You're a good brother," is all I muster. I don't know what else to say. Atticus gives me a sad smile.

"You should go back to bed. I'll stay up and monitor him. He'll pass out soon."

"No, it's okay. I'll stay with you."

"You don't have to do that."

"I don't mind." I'm not ready to back to sleep.

"Why are you up, anyway? Don't you usually sleep early?"

"I had a nightmare."

"Oh." A knowing look crosses his face. He already knows what it was about. "Are you okay?"

"I'll be fine," I shrug. I'm not worried about it. It's all just part of processing the experience, as my mother used to say. "Why are you up?"

"I was at the gym."

"At midnight?"

"I have trouble sleeping sometimes, too."

That doesn't surprise me. How could he not? I've killed two people and it's keeping me up at night. I can only imagine how many people he's killed. He may have grown up in this family, but all that violence he's seen must've taken a toll. He wasn't raised in a bubble. He knows it's not normal to kill people, although I'm sure his father tried to teach him otherwise.