The Victim's Revenge
Heavy clouds, overcast and louring, smothered the dark skies, strangling the weak sun and draining its energy. A murder of crows swooped upwards, spiralling round and cackling menacingly as they soared across the charcoal sky. Skeletal trees scowled as they stretched their aching, arthritic limbs; they clawed at the musty air in their desperation to reach the top. Heavy fog crawled over crooked branches, dropping lower and lower to the moist ground.
She sat alone on the hill, frozen body unmoving, fingers brushing the soft petals in the bouquet of flowers she had just laid on the grave in front of her. Her mother's grave. Lost in a blurred world of hot tears and heartache, she didn't notice the commotion behind her. Not that there was any noise as such, he was too good for that.
Dropping the naked man's body to the floor, he surveyed his victim. In his late teens, he was the average. With cropped blonde hair, tanned skin and a muscular figure, he was clearly a keen sports player. However drunk and tired, staggering around in the half light at four this morning, he hadn't been much of a challenge at all. He'd played around with him for a while, watching as the fear grew.
Then he left his trademark signature, slicing a cross on to the victim's chest and creating an opening in the middle. Pulling out the heart, he dropped it into a liquid filled glass, hearing the delicate yet satisfying plop. After this, he wiped his bloody hands on his oversized coat and tucked the jar away, before sending a curious glance towards the witness.
Still she sat stationary, her blonde ponytail hung, limp and knotty, down her rigid spine. Her plain black t-shirt was creased, and her skinny jeans had a grass stain down one shin. Canvas shoes were soaked from the rain that had poured down last night; her feet must have been frozen. Quietly, so as not to disturb her, he crept forward, watching her warily as he glided across the ground. He'd picked the desolated graveyard so the finding of the victim would be spookier, but now he was the one who was terrified.
He took the final step. She didn't move. He pulled out his knife. She didn't move. He drew back the blade. She didn't move. He lunged forwards. She didn't move. He stabbed her throat. She wasn't there.
A malicious chuckle drifted down from the looping tree branch above his head. There, her face still doused in shadows, was the girl, swinging her legs mockingly, daring him to catch her. All of a sudden, the situation was flipped. He wasn't the hunter anymore. He was being hunted. "Do you get a kick from it?" She called. Her voice was high and light, but with a coarse, hostile edge to it. "Well? I'm waiting."
He opened his mouth slowly, unsure what to make of the turn of events. The fear was mounting within him, and he could hear his voice tremble as he spoke. "I don't know what you're on about." An abrupt hush settled over the cemetery as it settled down to listen closely. She laughed- it was short: dismissive.
"When you kill people," She hissed, accentuating all of the 'l's. "Do you enjoy it?"
"No, I do it because I have to, they don't deserve to live if they're just going to abuse that privilege by drinking constantly."
"NO ONE DESERVES TO DIE!" she shrieked, waving a clenched fist angrily. In it she brandished a serrated knife, very much like his own that was dangling loosely from his own clammy hand.
She paused briefly, resuming her previous calm. "You used to drink." She whispered softly. He opened and closed his mouth slowly, resembling an imperceptive goldfish.
"I'm not an alcoholic."
"Neither was he." She indicated the body that was slumped against the tree.
"Who the hell are you anyway?" he snapped, irate at the fact that a kid was standing in his way. "Show your face or I'll kill you slowly and painfully."
"If it were just that easy," She sighed.
She slipped down from the tree, landing agilely on her toes. She lifted her head. Her mouth was thin, twisted with bitterness. Her nose was small, surrounded by freckles that covered her heart-shaped face. But they weren't unusual at all. It was her blank, lifeless blue eyes, and her ever so pale skin.
"White as a ghost…" he murmured, as realisation sunk in and a new horror dawned on him.
Softly, she began to circle him, her footsteps soundless on the sticky mud, no imprint left behind.
"Don't you remember me?" she purred. He shook his head mutely, trying to get a stronger grip on his knife. "You remember my mother though, and my little brother? Lacy and Liam Setworth? You murdered them. Liam was about to celebrate his third birthday, and you took his life away from him. And for what?"
Gulping, he twisted his body anxiously, as she paced round faster and faster. "Your mother was an alcoholic."
"Well Liam certainly wasn't. You took away my family."
"But… but I didn't kill you."
"No, I killed myself." She replied bluntly. "So tell me, where did you hide his body then?" When he shook his head again, she pressed the cold, sharp tip of her blade to his throat. "Here's a little incentive. Tell me, or die." Paralysed with fright, he felt his own knife slip to the floor, and didn't dare move to pick it up.
"I don't know, honestly, I can't remember."
Petulantly, she sliced his throat open, throwing the body to one side. The murderer had been murdered.
She sat alone on the hill, frozen body unmoving, fingers brushing the soft petals in the bouquet of flowers she had just laid on the grave in front of her. Her mother's grave. Lost in a blurred world of hot tears and heartache, she still hadn't found her answer.