Appearances

In the old wooden house with the peeling paint and the furniture half-eaten by termites, a woman stood. No one in the neighborhood knew who she was. No one in the neighborhood really knew what exactly had happened in the house. There were stories, many stories, ranging from fantastical to mundane to downright horrifying, but no one really knew for sure. All anyone knew was that no one went there.

They had seen the woman before- sometimes in the house, sometimes walking the streets. But she never stayed in town long, and she never spoke to anyone- though no one had tried speaking to her either.

She walked the stairs without a creak, moving with a swift and almost glide-like stride, until she arrived at a room with a picture on the wall.

It was a family picture- in it was one small girl with pigtails grinning hugely, seated comfortably between her parents. The woman in the picture, who was the very same woman who was currently in the house, was smiling softly; a slight annoyance lurked behind her eyes in the captured moment.

The cause was the man in the picture. He was impeccable, of course. His suit was crisp, his hair was perfectly coiffed, and even the picture conveyed the sharp intelligence in his eyes. And that ridiculous man had refused to let go of his silly little tablet that had all his oh-so-important plans on them for even the duration of one photo shoot- it was tucked behind their little girl, unseen by anyone outside. But she knew it was there.

He'd always been so very attached to that thing; he cared about it, about his things more than he had ever cared for her. The manner in which he spoke to her was always one of a superior being, of an adult to an ignorant child, of an owner to their dog. He spoke more kindly, respectfully, to that machine.

The TV in the corner of the room flickered to life, turning to a news channel- there was a man there. A prisoner. Grey-haired, wild-eyed, looking as if the carpet had just been yanked from beneath his feet even though she knew that had happened nearly 60 years ago now. Perhaps it was because they had also taken his precious tablet from him.

He looked so different now than he did in the picture.

She, on the other hand, looked exactly the same. And she looked in satisfaction, remembering the smug looks he used to give, and the superior air he used to carry, all stripped justly from him for what he had done.

There were so many stories- of abuse, of murder, of misidentification or framing.

The man had gone insane, they said. He had always been abusive, always been questionable to the people in the town- none of them had even been aware he had a wife, much less a child. There must have been some sort of trigger to cause it, but no one knew what. She had been able to call before- scared, worried, the police had been on their way, ready to deal with a domestic situation.

A child found drowned in the bath, and the mother shot in cold blood.

The case was open and shut, and the woman and her child were avenged fully by the law.

The woman smirked as the people on the news rehearsed the story the police had found.

He had thought her a fool. Incapable of surviving without him. Unable to think and act for herself. Consumed by her irrational emotions, handicapped by her love. He had never worried of retribution, of resistance. Of revenge.

It had never occurred to him she could be so cold to use herself and her own child as pawns.

It was simple. The police couldn't very well doubt the word of a battered woman. The child was young, and she trusted her mother. Taking a bath was something they did every day.

And she had acquired a gun long before, which she had periodically cradled and thought of using- whether on her or him didn't really matter. Until she realized that killing him would simply be the end; he would be just as smug, just as collected as before.

But now, looking at the frenzied and unkempt man in the picture, she knew she had won, and the moment of pain she had experienced for it had been worth everything.