I used to think that I understood what this was about – what my life was about. But with the passage of time, my perspective changed as well. Still, it happened far too late. Had it changed but a year earlier I might have been on the different road today, living a much simpler life. But then again we are all victims of time. So what right do I of all people have to complain?
I am a survivor. I used to think that was what life was about, survival, the strength to stand against the odds of the world to live another day. I was wrong. I despised heroes because most heroes tend to die young but survivors do not.
I, having lived longer than most, now wished that I too had died a hero rather than be branded as a coward. That, however, is a lie. Survival too takes courage but more than courage it requires cunning which heroes lack.
They had destroyed my way of life by killing the people who helped me live it.I had hungered for revenge but the survivor within told me that I would not survive the confrontation.
Now years later I have returned to take my revenge.I have not lived for I have not loved since the day they took away my ability to love. In that, I am a coward for love is too painful…
I look around. The door is ajar which is highly unusual for the paranoid Mr.Hussie. I peer through the window of the living room which is slightly open, yet another anomaly. The room seems to be empty. I cautiously creep through the open doorway and up the staircase.
And there he is. The frail old man is sitting in his bedroom. His proud head is buried in his hands. His hands are shaking.
“What’ s the matter Mr.Hussie, “I ask. He sits upright all of a sudden, startled to hear the sound of my voice.
“Get away. You have taken everything from me, what more do you want now?.
“No not everything,” I whisper softly, taking in the surroundings. But maybe he is right, the only thing he has left to sacrifice is his life and that does not seem to be worth much after all, at the very least not to him.
His shirt is red and damp with the blood but the blood does not belong to him. There is a human carcass lying mutilated on the rug. It’s his blood that is on Mr. Hussie’s hands and on his shirt but figuratively it’s on mine, the hands I mean not the shirt.
to be continued…….
While I am working on this story, you can check out my novel here – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01LDFM9EK