My eyes open. It’s dark, but despite that I can see clearly. I’m surrounded by
wood and cloth and dirt. I open my mouth to scream but no sound comes out. I
flail in the dark, fists slamming against the walls of my coffin, fingernails
torn from their roots as I scrabble against the lid. It feels hopeless and I
lay still and let my mind wander, remembering.
My eyes open. It’s dark, but despite that I can see clearly. I’m surrounded by trees and empty air. I don’t say a word, a slow smile creeping across my rotted face as I watch him sitting at his couch with a TV dinner. I clench and unclench my fists, loosening the dirt matted to them as I stalk forward with grim intent, and I remember.
My eyes open. It’s dark, but despite that I can see clearly. I’m surrounded by trees and empty air. I don’t say a word, a slow smile creeping across my rotted face as I watch him sitting at his couch with a TV dinner. I clench and unclench my fists, loosening the dirt matted to them as I stalk forward with grim intent, and I remember.
My eyes open. It’s dark, and I can barely see anything. I’m
surrounded by the smell of death, and the alley walls on either side of me feel
like they’re closing in. My breath comes in ragged gasps, but my lungs can’t
catch any air. I’m choking on my own blood. I fall to the ground, next to the
little girl. There are tear stains on her cheeks, but her eyes are glazed over.
Back in my coffin, I can feel the rage bubble up inside me. My vision clouds over, becoming a red haze as I pound against the lid again. This time, I hear the wood crack, and feel chunks of dirt fall through and into my mouth. I’m incapable of caring. Again and again I bash against the roof of my prison until at last in breaks open and I’m covered in the soil of my own grave. I begin to dig upward, and slowly start to pull myself out of this hell.
In front of the house, I stop and stare at the front door, my thoughts a jumble. For a moment I forget where I am, why I’m here. It doesn’t take long for me to pull my mind back together. I whisper her name under my breath, barely audible between the night wind and my own mounting anger.
In the alley, I try and twist my head to face him, try to break my eyes away from the little girl’s dead, unblinking stare. It hurts, especially when I feel the ragged cut across my throat tear open a little further with the strain of it. I look up and his eyes meet mine as he adjusts his badge. He says words to me, but I can’t hear them through the pain and the sound of my gurgling throat. Finally, my vision begins to swim and the last thing I see before I lose consciousness completely is his grinning face as he wipes the handle of the knife and lays it in my slackened hand.
I finally pull myself out of my grave. I try to take a deep breath, but the air catches in my damaged throat. I scrabble at it with yellowed fingernails, removing the stiches and putty placed there by someone to hide the jagged cut. There is no pain. I look up towards the sky, at the moon, and in my mind I hear my killer’s name. I know his name, though I don’t know how, and almost on instinct I know where to find him. My face splits in a rotten smile and I begin to shuffle on atrophied, rotten feet in the direction of his home.
I slam my body against the front door, the red haze once again obscuring my sight and my mind, and I hear the wood begin to splinter. Inside, I imagine that my murderer starts suddenly, and I can hear his voice behind it.
Back in my coffin, I can feel the rage bubble up inside me. My vision clouds over, becoming a red haze as I pound against the lid again. This time, I hear the wood crack, and feel chunks of dirt fall through and into my mouth. I’m incapable of caring. Again and again I bash against the roof of my prison until at last in breaks open and I’m covered in the soil of my own grave. I begin to dig upward, and slowly start to pull myself out of this hell.
In front of the house, I stop and stare at the front door, my thoughts a jumble. For a moment I forget where I am, why I’m here. It doesn’t take long for me to pull my mind back together. I whisper her name under my breath, barely audible between the night wind and my own mounting anger.
In the alley, I try and twist my head to face him, try to break my eyes away from the little girl’s dead, unblinking stare. It hurts, especially when I feel the ragged cut across my throat tear open a little further with the strain of it. I look up and his eyes meet mine as he adjusts his badge. He says words to me, but I can’t hear them through the pain and the sound of my gurgling throat. Finally, my vision begins to swim and the last thing I see before I lose consciousness completely is his grinning face as he wipes the handle of the knife and lays it in my slackened hand.
I finally pull myself out of my grave. I try to take a deep breath, but the air catches in my damaged throat. I scrabble at it with yellowed fingernails, removing the stiches and putty placed there by someone to hide the jagged cut. There is no pain. I look up towards the sky, at the moon, and in my mind I hear my killer’s name. I know his name, though I don’t know how, and almost on instinct I know where to find him. My face splits in a rotten smile and I begin to shuffle on atrophied, rotten feet in the direction of his home.
I slam my body against the front door, the red haze once again obscuring my sight and my mind, and I hear the wood begin to splinter. Inside, I imagine that my murderer starts suddenly, and I can hear his voice behind it.
“What the fuck?” he says as he makes his way toward me, most
likely grabbing a weapon as he nears the door. I remain undeterred as I slam
against the door again, and my smile broadens as I feel the wood begin to sag.
I call to my mind the image of that little girl’s stare, and remember that this
isn’t my vengeance alone.
His voice wavers a bit, and I imagine he is pointing the gun, most likely his service pistol, a nine millimeter semi-automatic, “I’m a cop, Goddamnit!” he shouts, “Back the fuck off and I won’t plug you! I’m armed!” The murderer’s words might have some meaning if he hadn’t already killed me.
His voice wavers a bit, and I imagine he is pointing the gun, most likely his service pistol, a nine millimeter semi-automatic, “I’m a cop, Goddamnit!” he shouts, “Back the fuck off and I won’t plug you! I’m armed!” The murderer’s words might have some meaning if he hadn’t already killed me.
I take a step back, letting his fear and uncertainty bubble
over. I can almost taste it. He doesn’t know why he knows what’s coming, but he
can feel it, and I’m enjoying every second of it. Only for a moment though, as
I once again slam myself full force into the door, snapping it off of its
hinges. I hear him cry out in alarm.
In the dark, I know he can’t see my face. He doesn’t need to, though, because he can smell the grave on me, can feel the rage and the hate radiate off of my corpse. I take a step forward so he can see me better, so he can see the smile, the impossibly wide grin that splits my face nearly in two. I lean my head back so that the bloodless mess of my throat is plainly visible to him.
He fires the pistol I knew he would have, one, two, three shots in quick succession, all of them striking true. I feel the bullets pass through me, slide through my organs, stomach, heart, lungs. I laugh and step forward. He aims again, firing one more shot. This one passes through what’s left of my brain and I stagger back, my neck cracking as the force of it slams by skull back. I smile again and lift my head to look at him, black ichor and rotted brain slime dripping down my face.
It takes great effort, but I manage to choke out words for the first time since I awakened, “You’ll…have…to…do…better…” I gasp as I lurch towards him, death in my eyes. I hear the gun clatter to the floor as he drops it from nerveless fingers.
In the dark, I know he can’t see my face. He doesn’t need to, though, because he can smell the grave on me, can feel the rage and the hate radiate off of my corpse. I take a step forward so he can see me better, so he can see the smile, the impossibly wide grin that splits my face nearly in two. I lean my head back so that the bloodless mess of my throat is plainly visible to him.
He fires the pistol I knew he would have, one, two, three shots in quick succession, all of them striking true. I feel the bullets pass through me, slide through my organs, stomach, heart, lungs. I laugh and step forward. He aims again, firing one more shot. This one passes through what’s left of my brain and I stagger back, my neck cracking as the force of it slams by skull back. I smile again and lift my head to look at him, black ichor and rotted brain slime dripping down my face.
It takes great effort, but I manage to choke out words for the first time since I awakened, “You’ll…have…to…do…better…” I gasp as I lurch towards him, death in my eyes. I hear the gun clatter to the floor as he drops it from nerveless fingers.
