Revenge

The day was dying and John slowly opened his door, hearing the hinges scream for a glass of oil. He threw the keys in a purple bowl, and sighed loudly. His hands removed the sweat from his head, avoiding the mixing of it with his fresh blood. He entered his favorite room, the room where the soft buzzing of the refrigerator can be heard, the room where his belly won't suffer the pain of less, only the pleasure of more. He couldn't wait until the door opened, the light shone on his face, and all the products awaited his sweaty hands.

But before this would happen, he opened the cupboard and took the roll of bandages out. He put a little bit of disinfecting ointment, and made sure the bandages were tight enough.

An hour ago, it had happened. An hour ago, he was walking in the streets, as relaxed as a scared man could be. Something was wrong, he sensed it. A dark cloud was hiding the sun, almost making it night before dusk. A girl walked past him, a pretty girl that made him feel as if reality slipped between his fingers. It's all relative of course, but for a few seconds, it really felt as if the strings of this universe were loosening up, as if a universal pause had occured. Her brown eyes looked at him, and his tongue didn't move, only his breath was heard. Speech has always been hard.

The girl moved past the block, and he felt a hard push on his back. Almost tripping, he turned around. A man with a leather jacket was holding a bayonet in front of him. He nodded toward a small street, and pushed him toward it. Nothing would save him, he knew that for sure.

He held his hands above his head, and stuttered a few words. "Why... who?" "Shut up, you asshole.", he said in a loud voice. John tried to find words, but the man grew tired. His grey eyebrows moved closer toward his green eyes, and he focused himself on his prey. A big fist landed on the head of John, making him fall back. The man put his knee on the prey's neck, took his wallet. "Interesting,", he looked at the ID, "John. See, I really don't like guys who don't have cash with them." A psychopathic smile formed on the man's face. He placed his greying hair in the right direction, and pointed the bayonet between the eyes of his victim. "You're going to pay for wasting my time." Slowly, but steady, John felt an outburst of pain and blood streaming down into his eyes. The man relieved the pain, let him stand up. "See, so painful wasn't it, right?" John's nerves were ready to explode, and the hunter only smiled. "Get yourself some weed, it might relax you." He turned around, and left John, never to return.

Seeing after his wounds, he granted himself the gift of alcohol, with its soothing effect for the pain of his head. Slowly stumbling toward his bed, he drunk it. His pain disappeared as ounces of snow who meet the sunlight for the first time. Slowly the eyes closed and darkness embraced the hurt man.

Jonathan opened the door of his garage, and looked at the wallet of John. Why the fuck would a nerd like him have no money? Maybe he shouldn't be bothered by it, and just let it rest. He closed the door slowly, sat himself on the chair and drunk the last bit of the beer standing on the table before him. He leaned backwards, his eyes were covered by the lids and the worries ran faster out of his mind than water in the Congo river.

A weird feeling interrupted the silence. A feeling of eyes watching him, a feeling of not being alone. He quickly opened his eyes, looked around, but saw nothing. To be sure, he took his gun that hung under the table. The bullets placed themselves in the cylinder, the hammer was pulled over and he stood up.

Slowly, he walked toward the lever. The lights went out in the garage, and only the moon had her reflections on the floor. "If you're here, show me your fucking face!", he yelled. His voice echoed a bit.

John saw a man with a gun. The man was yelling in a garage, but reasons were unknown to him. He felt a cold breath in his neck, turned around and saw a man standing behind him. He jumped, fearful of what the man would do. The man clearly didn't see him, for no reaction came from him. Almost immediately, he understood what was happening. The man held a bayonet in his hand, and wanted to kill the other one.

What he could do, he didn't know. He looked in the fearless eyes of a psychopath, of a future murderer. The man, the victim, the prey, was familiar to John. He wore a leather jacket, and the greying hair was almost silver with the full moon. The man who cut him open, the man who delivered him more pain than possible, that man was about to be murdered, to be put six feet underground without anyone noticing. Immediately, John tried to do something, he waved his hand in front of the psychopath, trying to hold his attention. Nothing seemed to work, nothing made him look at John. The man advanced, walked "through" him. "Through" sounds about right, because the soon to be criminal crept in him, only to stand there as if John were a ghost without body mass. The scene continued, and John had to find something.

Suddenly, he saw a rope. It hung from the ceiling, almost looking like one of the lianas that his childhood hero used to swing from one tree to another. If I can use that rope to slinger a heavy object, I might take him out. This thought raced through his mind and he obeyed directly. A heavy object, what could be a heavy object? He searched through a few newspaper that laid scattered on the floor. "Bingo.", he whispered when he found a filled jar of dirt. Slowly, but steady it was moved by him and he made sure it hung on the rope. "Three...", the jar was lifted, "Two...", he held the jar with both hands, finger tops almost reaching each other, and pulled it toward his ear, "One!" The jar swung out of his hands.

The jar hit the person full in the face, making him fall backwards against the walls of the garage. "Yes", John thought and he stepped forward, trying to see the full scene he had created. He almost got a heart attack when he realized whom he saved. He looked at the man, the robber, the one who cut him. A realisation dawned upon him. Saving the life of a man, whom wouldn't have spared him. A smile formed on his face. "They can't see me", he yelled at the criminal. The man didn't react, and John's smile grew more and more. "They can't see nor hear me.", he stepped toward the invader, looking for his bayonet. "Now, I'll make him smile forever..."

Jonathan saw the body drop, jumped, and looked at it. Few bloodstrains came out of the wound, dirt was infecting the wound and several ants were already nestling themselves in the corpse. The darkness felt heavy, as if he were responsible for the man's death. He wasn't, for God's sake. He knew it bloody well. He tried to focus his thoughts on what to do next. He looked at the table, saw the little sacks filled with weed. "Might be good to relax ol' Jonathan.", he said in a soft voice. But still, the watching eyes were still there. He saw that the lights still weren't on, so he decided to pull the lever. Hearing the lights go on, he relaxed. It's over, was the first thought that filled his mind.

Suddenly, he saw the bayonet. But something was off, it was flying. Rubbing his eyes, reality didn't change a bit. "What the fuck?" Speechless, he stared at the moving knife, seeing it move toward, toward him. "Oh shit", he yelled out loud, while avoiding the knife. It missed his ear, but still his skin was gone nonetheless. Reacting as fast as he could, he took the chair, trying to use it as a shield.

"Don't defend yourself!", he took hold of the chair, and threw it against the wall. Death was visible in the eyes of the man. Seeing death, the thing that awaits everyone but has a taboo as large as ever, was a threatening sight. John stepped forward, saw Jonathan tripping and holding his hand in front of the knife. A tear formed under the dead man's left eye. The eternal darkness would soon fall upon his shoulders, being heavier than anything prior. Six feet under ground is what most say, but at the sight of this dying man, it could be sixty nine feet as well. What was he doing, in this blind rage? What was he thinking, holding this weapon? Why was he acting as evil as this man, who had humiliated many but befriended none? The ethical questions formed in his head, and were held hostage by his conscience. Why on earth would he save this man's life, why on earth would he take it? The contradictions would sound more and more as synonyms rather than antonyms, and he realized that he, a man, a creature created by nature, had no right to end or destroy life. Ending life would a betrayal to nature, a formed hole that could and would never heal.

He dropped the knife, heard the sharp sound of metal falling on concrete, and ran out of the garage. The night was old, the moon was already grieving her friend, the stars where gone, with only the polar star twinkling and enlighting his way. Somehow he knew he'd made the right choice, but moral axioma's such as these would only be proven over time. Time could heal, destroy and was seen as an ancient version of what we would call today a shrink.

He softly closed his eyes, felt a force pulling him back to the ground, and didn't consider to work against it. The soft matress of his bed met his back, and everything felt all right. As far as he knew, nothing had changed, but as we all know, saving one life, could lead to many, many different possibilities, who bore the burden to never be explored by a humble author.