What Goes Around Comes Around

One

March 21, 2007.

I can't explain in any simple words how wired I am right now. In this moment I'm more alert and energized than any drug could make me. Not only that, but I can practically feel the adrenaline pumping through me like an injection of raw power. My knuckles are white from the death grip I hold on the wheel of my 2006 Ford Explorer. The blue light underneath my dashboard sends a glow along the steel of the crowbar on my passenger seat. The weight of what I'm about to do was heavy on my mind. I don't know if I'm going to kill a man, or a trio, or if I'm going to snap under pressure and back out.

No. Not that. I'll kill and maim eight gangbangers if I have to, but I'm not going to miss Charleston. Three hours ago I was standing in the emergency room of the Toronto hospital at the bedside of Kate. Barely conscious after arriving at the hospital, beaten and bruised in the hospital bed. I got there before her parents and the police, and she told me what happened. She was at a party, drinking with her friends when James Charleston cornered her in the washroom. No one else was there. He'd beat her across the face with a bottle twice, knocking her to the floor. Then he raped her. She didn't remember anything else. She had been found by another girl who called the ambulance. Kate, aged thirteen, called me.

So here I am on spring break, my first year of university, studying law, driving downtown to beat and kill a man I've never met. Kind of ironic when you think about it. Becoming the one thing I want to stop before I'm even qualified to stop myself. The radio goes to static for a moment before tuning back in. The news reporter's line jumps out at me.

"The Bridal Path Killer is still free on the streets, killing at will. The killer, a large Caucasian man, targets families in their own homes, slaughtering them with a knife that he leaves at the scene. The police– I slam the power button on the radio as I pull onto Black Street, a small shady side street and known hangout for James Charleston and his gang. As I drive down the street I realize that there is a chance that I could be shot down by six men before I even get out of the car. It doesn't matter, I have to do this. My headlights reach the end of the narrow road, lighting up the wall at the dead end. A group of about ten men are in a gaggle near the graffitied bricks, and they look up as my headlights wash over them. They turn to me, and I see Charleston leaning against the wall, a bottle in his hand. I reach across the car and grab the crowbar, my knuckles whitening as I squeeze the cool black metal. I open the door, step out and slam my door. One of Charleston's thugs steps up to me: big, dumb, and ugly. As he reaches me he seems to hesitate, only for a fraction of a second. As big and dumb as he was, he knows I was bigger, smarter, and faster than he is. Come to think of it, all of these people could know who I am. I'm the provincial university track champion, a literal genius, and I'm not exactly humble about anything. Perhaps committing a crime in front of nine people isn't a good idea. Oh well, I've gotten this far.

"You got a problem faggot?" The guy must have worked up some courage, because there he was, chest to chest, staring up at me. I look down on him. He's only about six one, lean, and afraid despite his attitude. He can't cause me any trouble if he tries. 

"Only with James Charleston," I reply stepping into him. "I don't feel the need to make this your problem." He takes a step back and points at me with the bottle.

"Maybe I do," he says, waving the bottle. "Maybe I don't think you need to speak with Mr. Charleston." He sips from the bottle, tipping it up to drain it. Smug bastard. I swing the crowbar hard toward his head. The bottle shatters into a million pieces as the steel smashes through the glass and into his hand. He falls to his knees as his teeth fall to the concrete. One hand clutched to his bleeding face and the other bleeding openly from the shards embedded in it, he stumbles to his feet and away from the wall.