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 General Alden.

Greg was never a man who took lightly to revenge; in fact, he never deemed it necessary, but his revenge toward General Alden seemed justified. General Alden would pay—not for Greg's sake but for Lisa's memory, for the children who deserved a world free from monsters.  They need me, and I... need them, Greg thought. Greg walked for three more miles before he took a taxi home.

Greg moved back into his house after a few months. He went into a deep sadness, not quite like depression, but it was close. 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. 

"It's time for him to be punished for all his sins," Greg vowed, his voice a blade forged in the fires of grief. The universe shifted, aligning itself with his purpose. And as the room absorbed his oath, the stars above bore witness—a celestial jury awaiting the reckoning.

Greg went to work the next day studying the R.O.B.O.'s anatomy when he heard a voice.

"Hello, Greg. Are you done mourning?" Her voice was sweet like honey and soothing as a fresh summer day.

Greg answered back in his head. "Um, am I losing it, or is this happening?"

The voice laughed a gentle laugh. "Humans are so humorous!"

"Hyva?"

"Yes?"

"H-How are you here in my mind?"Greg asked incredulously.

"Remember when I kissed your helmet, and then right before I died, you graciously kissed me on the cheek? I wasn't kissing your helmet just because I was happy, but because I was trying to send the needed information. I didn't know that the helmet wasn't your skin, and then you took off your helmet..."