Cleo Hart: Intelligence by Default

Revenge

By the time I had reached the apartment, my thoughts were a blur of red, my blood pumping faster than I thought possible. I flung open the door, trying desperately to calm down enough to be convincing when I saw Luke. My eyes scanned the room, searching for something, anything to use as a weapon. I decided on a kitchen knife, lying by the sink.

Luke was badly humming some kind of tune in his room, unluckily for him, his irritating, repetitive sounds were fueling my anger. Taking as deep of a breath as I could, I tucked the knife into the back of my jeans, and knocked on Luke's door. He grunted in response, which I took as permission to enter.

"Hey Luke." My voice on a very surface level sounded chirpy, but I worried that the rage I felt was seeping into the undertones. I smiled, he narrowed his eyes.

"Mary Cleo, how are you?" For a second, I wondered why he called me my real name. He seemed happy enough, but then again he'd found it easy enough to deceive me before.

"Yeah I'm okay," better, I was sounding less tense, "did Jason leave?"

I began to reach for the knife slowly.

"Yep." He shifted slightly, his hand under the pillow, before I could react, he pulled out a pistol, and rested it on his abdomen. He was tense and alert, something I had neglected to notice upon entering. I glanced at his body, and for a second questioned whether I had even the slightest chance of fighting someone so strong. Luckily my doubt lasted less than a second, before it was drowned in anger again. "We probably need to talk, don't we?"

I clenched my jaw and stared at him evenly. A tiny part of me wished he'd shoot, so I could be free from this reality permanently. I grabbed the knife and held it beside me, my mind in overdrive.

"My gun beats your knife."

"Could you possibly refrain from being arrogant for this one moment where I just found out that you killed my parents?" I growled, gripping the knife harder.

"Right you are." He said, "Listen, there is an explanation."

I stood silently, waiting for him to continue. I needed him to get distracted so I could take the gun.

"Your parents, they worked for an organisation similar to ours. They were great spies, and a lot of people looked up to them. They lead a lot of investigations and saved a lot of lives. They were great people, but they went on a mission together and it went wrong. The gang they were trying to take out had found out their real motives, and had tracked them down and kidnapped them. They were going to torture them, put them through so much pain before they died. I went under to try and save them, but when I got to them I was ambushed. They were tied to chairs and there was all sorts of messed up shit on tables, stuff you would never even think of. I had seconds to get out, and even less time to make a decision. So I asked them what they wanted me to do, and they told me. They said their goodbyes and their I love you's, and I shot them. It was what they asked for. I'm sorry."

At that moment it wouldn't have mattered if he killed my parents to save the universe, they were mine and he took them from me. It was as simple as that. I launched at him, no longer stable enough to bring the gun into consideration. He threw it to the floor before I landed and sat up slightly. I slashed the knife at his face, which he dodged without effort, attempting to grab my wrist and push it away from both of us. I pulled my arm back before he had chance, and slashed again, this time piercing his pillow as he moved his head aside. Throwing the knife into the wall on my right, I balled my fist and punched his jaw with everything I had. This time he made no visible effort to stop me, and went on to allow me to punch him again. Tears splashed on to his chest as I punched again, and once more, before the anger resided, and I was left only an intense, absorbing grief. Desperate for some release I screamed, rolling off Luke to sit on the bed next to him.

He sat up, crossing his legs and looking over to me. I ignored the slight guilt I felt when I looked at his bleeding lip and bruised jaw. He deserved it. Did he deserve it? He killed my parents. But he killed them to save them pain. But he still killed them. Confusion and insufferable sadness came with nausea, and I found myself stumbling to the bathroom to throw up. Luke followed a few steps behind, standing at the door to check I was okay. I wasn't.

"What do you need?" He asked, wiping blood from his lip with his thumb.

"I don't know." I sobbed, crumpling slightly against the bathtub.

He stayed stood for a few minutes, his brow furrowed, before moving to sit next to me. I had nothing. No parents, no friends, nothing sentimental, no values. We sat in silence for an hour, the only sound my stifled sobs.

Without knowing what I was doing, I shuffled slightly towards Luke. Luke who I hated, or should hate, or shouldn't hate. I didn't know. He glanced at me, his face just pain, and worry, before lifting his arm. And drunk on misery and anguish, I moved close to him, and allowed his strength, and steady heartbeat to comfort me.