The Evil That Came

Part 4: Vengeance

Greg walked down his street, amazed at how life went on, and continued, Nothing ever stops! Then, his thoughts quickly funneled back to his empty, wifeless, childrenless home.

Greg was never a man who took lightly to revenge; in fact, he never deemed it necessary, but his revenge towards whoever killed his wife and kids deserved to be tortured. Slowly. He has built libraries and infrastructure, funded humanitarian missions, and proposed peace worldwide. Why do good people suffer?

He went into a deep sadness. He just sat there in his home, emotionless. Some of his close friends and neighbors were helping him out and trying to cheer him up, but he felt like a piece of his heart had been ripped right out of him. He soon came around to doing stuff for himself, but he was still sad. His sadness started to become like a veil around him.

The clean-up crew had swept away the remnants of Lisa's murder—the room was sanitized, clean as if the horrors the wall bore witness to didn't occur. Greg stood before the door, his heartbeat echoing. He pushed it open, and the past surged forth. The crib—the innocent vessel that once held promise—became his canvas of fury. He tore it apart, the wood yielding to his wrath. The walls absorbed his rage, and the room bore witness to his anguish as well.

His knuckles met the walls, blood mingling with pain. Tears blurred his vision, and he wept—a reservoir was breaking its dam. The vise of sadness tightened, threatening to crush him. But Greg clung to the shards of his shattered heart, vowing vengeance.

All the pain he harbored was compressed into eleven months of tears. Greg's footsteps traced the room's perimeter, fingers grazing the walls as if seeking solace. The crib lay in ruins, his splintered dreams scattered like dust. He gathered the remnants, each a shard of memory.

The ghost of Lisa's laughter, the phantom weight of her absence. Belly-rubbing, belly kissing, name-picking, future dreaming, future building, and baby clothes for his two little girls. Sienna and Sierra.  Greg sank into the rubble, a mosaic of pain. His breaths came ragged, a symphony of grief. But this time, tears flowed freely.

He touched the crib's jagged edges, surrendering to his sorrow. He sat amidst the wreckage, and there, he exhaled in the debris of his pain—a sigh of relief—not because the ache had vanished but because he'd allowed it to breathe. Revenge simmered—a quiet flame fueled by love and loss. 

The phone rang. Greg let it ring and ring until something made him feel like it was important. Jerry's voice was deep with curiosity. "Greg, I know this is difficult to discuss, but could it be a woman? I mean, that girl, the brunette, didn't ya'll have a fling or somethin'? Think about it. She's about 5'10, maybe with boots...?"

Greg shook his head as if Jerry could see him. "Matilda? No, no way." He blurted. Then the air around him seemed to vanish as he remembered her bitter, icy stare in his office the day of the murder.

Jerry doubled back, "She could be the killer, Greg. We will bring her in for questioning."

As if Matilda had her ear to the phone. She pressed the doorbell, and a video of Matilda waiting by the door floated in the air. Greg hesitated and stared at the video. Ring!Ring!Ring! She pressed. Greg came to and fumbled with the touchpad as he opened the door. "Matilda, hey." His voice squeaked an octave higher than usual.

Matilda lingered before stepping in, taking in his environment. The house was orderly enough, but knowing Greg for as long as she has, she knows Greg is anal retentive to the point of psychopathy, as her boots tapped the solid wood floors. She felt Greg vibrating with strange energy. 

She adjusted his picture frame of Lisa and him, picked up a seemingly clean sock in the middle of his kitchen, and put it back in the hamper to be washed. Greg silently watched her glide through his house. She held his hand gently and led him to the couch as she sat on the chaise across from him. Her black leather pants creaked as she sat. Her lacy black top accentuates her bodice in perfect symmetry, every thread seemingly designed to draw his eye to the center of her. She put whiskey on the coffee table before she went around the house.