Revenge

Brutally murdered but a mere few days before Halloween, my best friend was dead. We were out walking together, just getting some fresh air and enjoying the morning. While I debated what kind of costume I wanted to wear for the community Halloween party, he was off exploring newly fallen leaves and strange looking mushrooms. It had been raining all night and the shadowy stripped trees were still glistening as if coated with black tears. Looking back, I think it was an omen of what was to come.

Walking several yards behind me, my dear friend suddenly decided to check out something he had seen in the distance. I laughed since he was prone to doing that sort of thing and never thought any more about it. Seemingly, in the distance, I heard an odd sound but because my own mind overflowing with thoughts of how I would soon be going to a party, it quickly passed from my mind.

It was not until I had returned home and fixed myself a sandwich that I realized I had not seen him for a long time. When he had not shown up by the end of my lunch, I started to get worried. Finally, after calling his name from the back door and getting nary an answer, I decided I needed to go find him. Oh, weep to the sun! I found him lying in the weeds next to the highway and only a hundred feet from the house.

At first, I could not believe he was dead. Panicked by the blood on his dear face, I tried to carry him to the house. However, all that dead weight was too much for me alone and I had to run for the compost cart I used in the barn. It had no sides and by using a long pine plank, I managed to get him into the bed. Yet, by the time, I had dragged him into the kitchen, his flesh was starting to get cold and his eyes - opened wide, staring. It was at that point that I knew it was over.

His body slowly stiffed as I held him in my lap, kissing him while my tears welded with his blood. Then, I suddenly recollected who had driven by that morning. Only one car came down our backwoods road. Those murderers were so sure they were safe, they had even waved at me, honking their horn as they drove by. While I was standing out in my yard, wondering where he could be, they had waved. Yet, it could only have been moments before they had run him down, leaving him on the side of the road as if he were a piece of disposable rubbish.

They must believe they have gotten away with murder! They acted as if they did nothing wrong. Oh, but they are lying. They do not know the pain I am feeling, how saddened by the death of someone dear to me. Someone who sat next to me and happily pretended to enjoy my readings from favorite books by Keating, King, and Shakespeare. Shakespeare himself could not have written a more truly tragic play from the events that had unfolded just moments before about the death of my best friend.

However, gossip flies in a small town. Especially one made up of tiny shops and people who know everything about each other. The murderers are new to this place, only living here for a few months. They, now claiming a friendship that never before existed, sidled up to others and whispered the stories of his death. Stories of how they were afraid of my Homeric friend, saying they had seen him standing in their yard late at night, watching them. Noting how it was provident that someone had taken care of the matter and made it safer for all who lived there. Yes, they whisper behind my back, telling tales that suited their purpose, to hide their part in this heinous death.

The small service I held for him was private. I knew I was the only one who mourned his passing. No one else attended and I preferred it in a way to those who would have come to only gape and gawk at him in his simple casket. However, the seeds of revenge planted in my mind gave me pause. Revenge! That is all I could think of doing. I promised I would cut my pound of flesh from their hearts, from those who had ruptured our lives.

Yesterday, they opened the door for me, a way to avenge my lost love. They came to my door, offering their condolences on my loss. I know it is only more false-hearted fabrication, but I do not let them see the wrath blazing within my breast. They offer to take me to dinner, saying I need to get out more and a night on the town would be good for me. I decline. Unaware of my knowledge of their horrible deed, they insist on doing something for me. They do not realize they have given me an idea, a way to get my revenge. Instead, they are agreeable to my invitation for dinner in my home.

Tonight, promptly at six, the doorbell rang. It was they, the murderers of my friend. I could not think of them in any other fashion. As I greeted them, they handed me a chocolate cake and a bottle of red wine. It was, they murmured, their desire to bring something I might enjoy. I smiled, telling them the wine would be perfect for the dinner I had planned and the cake would make a sumptuous dessert. They could see I was pleased with myself and joked as to how I should not become too fond of the wine. I laughed with them.

Playing my part as a gracious host, I invited them to have a drink before dinner. As they sat in the parlor I once shared with my best friend, they remarked how good dinner smelled, sniffing the fragrant aroma of spices. The odor had permeated the entire house and I allowed how it did smell quite delicious. I remarked that I hoped they enjoyed their meal as much as I would. They inquired as to what we were having and I professed to a family secret, a special recipe handed down for generations. They seemed pleased at this, never suspecting my deception.

After finishing our drinks, I seated them at the dining room table next to each other and directly opposite myself. I wanted to watch them eat the meal I had so painstakingly prepared throughout the day. Knowing I would never see them again, I smile, quietly gloating over what is to come. They, in turn, looked at each other, smiling in anticipation of an excellent banquet. It was difficult to mask my true feelings; yet, by masquerading my thoughts and my countenance, I was confident revenge was near at hand.

Serving the food, I insisted they partake of everything, saying there was plenty to go around. The cut of meat, done to perfection, the red wine a perfect compliment to its flavor, along with zucchini and pepper pie, fresh sliced tomatoes and corn on the cob, with a nice green salad on the side completed my table. Almost everything was fresh from my garden, where I spent many wonderful hours in my past life, my life before them! As they cleaned their plates, I insisted they have second helpings. We talked about current events, a book I had just finished, and a play they had recently seen. Not once was any mention made of my missing companion.

The meal went well enough, though I could not bear to eat more than a few vegetables. They did not seem to notice, eating well and indeed more than they had anticipated with the bounty of food available. I laughed inwardly, noting every bite they had taken. I served the cake, even taking a small piece for myself.

Later, we retired to the parlor, drinking coffee as they complimented me on that glorious meal, especially my special pot roast, with its special spices, even saffron. I spared nothing to make it delectable to them. They insisted on having the recipe, but I managed to evade the possibility, demurely saying once again that it was a family recipe and that I simply could not give it away to someone who was practically a stranger. They scoffed, saying it was much too good to be a kept secret and were we not, after all, the best of friends. I agreed to think about it. Oh, but their words were as a knife slicing into my heart; however, I said nothing but allowed that perhaps they were right. Only time would tell.

Finally, they said it was time to leave. I agreed, stating I was worn-out and planned to retire early. They again invited me to go into town with them some evening. Once more, I managed to gracefully decline by saying I was not ready to do so, the only reference made to my loss. They continued to speak, asking that I reconsider during that night. I spoke to that possibility and said I would call when I was decided on the matter. Even so, I could see the relief evident in their glances toward each other, while I knew I would never be able to hide my hate much longer if left in their presence.

Suddenly, I could bear it no longer and wanted them to leave quickly. I managed to walk to the door without running. Opening it with calmness I did not feel, I bade them good night. They each took my hand as they passed through the doorway, turning to wave good-bye. I watched them until they were inside their loathsome car; then, I quickly shut the door.

Returning to the dining room, I surveyed the remains of dinner, noting with satisfaction the amount of food consumed. Pushing open the kitchen door with my hip, I carried the remains to the sink and proceeded to scrap the leftovers into a rather large box at my feet, a box still covered with particles of dirt and bits of dead leaves. As I worked, I hummed a tune he had been especially fond of and I began to cry, weeping many tears. Yet, I knew my revenge was now complete. Closing the box, I half carried, half dragged it into the garden to where a large gaping hole shimmered in the moonlight. Pushing the box, it fell back into the opening from whence it came and I began to shovel the damp earth over it. Only once did I stop, to trace my finger across the letters of his name.