Dear Diary,
Two years have slipped by since I lost everythingmy wife, my hopes, the future we had imagined together. The emptiness feels like a wound that will never close. If I could turn back that cursed day, I would move mountains to stop it happening. If only
For the first time in those two long years, I found myself hurrying back to the oppressive silence of the empty house on Camden Road. At last I could fulfil the revenge I have been nursing for my wife’s death. I intended to stop at the offlicence for a bottle of whisky, but I changed my mind. The hour of retribution is upon me; my mind must stay clear. I went to bed early and, surprisingly, fell asleep quickly. Two hours later I woke with my heart thudding, gasping for air. In my mind Emmas breath hovered beside me, her whisper almost audible. I strained to open my eyes, hoping to see her there, but the pillow lay untouched. Back to sleep.
My hand brushed the sheet; it warmed under my palm, a cruel illusion that for a fleeting second she still lay beside me. Sleep would not return. I stared at the ceiling, now a pale canvas in the dark, replaying two years of waiting, yearning, and the certainty that my enemy had returned. I knew it.
On that illfated morning Emma had left work early to attend a prenatal scan at the local clinic. She was waiting, hoping for news after years of trying for a child.
She stood at the edge of the pavement, the green man flashing on the opposite side, and stepped onto the zebra crossing first. She didnt see the lorry bearing down, eager to beat the crowd of pedestrians. A cyclist on the other side was already sprinting across. A collision was inevitable, but the driver swerved sharply to the right, sending the lorry straight into Emma. She died instantly. The driver received a twoyear suspended sentence; the cyclist walked away with bruises. Doctors later declared Emma wasnt pregnant after all.
My enemy lives on, sharing a home with his wife and son. I have nothing leftno hope, no purpose. I have long resolved to kill him, to slam his car with the full force of my anger, letting his family endure what I have endured. I will not hide, I will not run. Even if I die, it will be at the same moment my wife died. Waiting for vengeance is no life at all.
Sometimes I drive to the crossroads where Emma fell, lay a bunch of fresh flowers on the kerb, and watch strangers pass by, indifferent. I try to imagine what Emma thought in those final secondsperhaps she was hoping for good news, taking a last breath before stepping onto the crossing.
I have visited graves, prayed in churches, but none have eased the ache. Only by avenging my enemy might I find freedom. Exhausted, I rose, took a hot shower, shaved carefully, then ate a simple buttered toast with a cup of tea, eyes fixed on a damp patch on the wall where Emma had planned to paste new wallpaper. I left the patch untouched; it is now part of the memory. I slipped on a clean shirt, cast one lingering glance at the empty room, and wondered if I would ever return.
At first I drifted around town, killing time. Too early, perhaps. My enemy is still lounging in fresh sheets beside his wife, or maybe hes already up, stretching, heading to the bathroom, scratching a foot just below his trousers, yawning, then taking a shower. My wife would have prepared breakfast. I would step out, scented with shower gel, kiss her, sit opposite our son at the table Enough, I would mutter to myself. The enemy looks too… decent. The man who killed my wife cant be that handsome.
I pictured my enemy the night before, drunk to catch up on two years of missed opportunities. He awoke with a pounding headache, thirst gnawing at him, splashed water on his face, gulped from the tap as if in a prison cell. He didnt shave, sat at the kitchen table in his underwear and teeshirt. Now thats right. Thats the sort of man I want to kill. No pity.
I turned my car into the driveway of his house, parked to watch the front door. Two children played on the garden swing set. I waited. Sooner or later he would emergealone or with his family. Not today, perhaps tomorrow. Revenge would find him.
It was late April. Fresh buds sprouted on the hedges, especially on the sunny side of the garden. The pavement was still damp from the nights rain. The sky was heavy with clouds, a chilly breeze blowing.
A small boy, about six, burst from the back door and ran toward the playground, stopping when he spotted my 4×4. Maybe hes the son of my enemy? I thought, lowering my window.
What do you want, lad? I asked.
Nothing, he replied, staring straight at me, unafraid. My dad also has a car, not as flashy as yours.
And wheres it now? Sold? I tried to tease out his family details.
Broken in a crash. We havent bought a new one yet. He shrugged.
I examined the boy, seeking a resemblance to my target. I saw noneperhaps he looked more like his mother, a face I couldnt recall, though the features of my enemy were etched in my mind. A few raindrops speckled the windshield.
Want a ride? Hop in, or youll get soaked. I opened the passenger door.
He hesitated briefly, then climbed onto the high seat, shut the door, and the rains clatter faded inside. His eyes lit up as he inspected the dashs red glow.
Do you have heated seats? It must gulp a lot of fuel, he asked, sounding older than his years.
I answered every question, feeling oddly protective, even as the rain intensified. Shall we take a spin? Its still drizzling.
He gave me a suspicious glance.
If you dont want that, we can just sit, I said, trying to sound calm. Inside, I thought, What a clever, fearless kid.
My mum will be angry. I get it. He muttered, glancing again.
My mum wont be here for long, I replied, halfjoking.
We drove away from the garden, wondering if anyone had seen us. Kids rarely remember licence plates or car makes.
A voice from earlier resurfaced in my mind: the best revenge is to strike at what the offender loves. The thought settled like a stone.
Whats your name? I asked.
Tommy, he answered brightly.
No way, were namesakes! Im Victor too. I laughed weakly.
I knew I wouldnt kill him; a child is innocent. I could, however, take him somewhere far, leave him, let his father search in vain. The idea lingered.
Tommy suddenly said, My dad didnt hit that woman. It was his wife driving. My mum was in the passenger seat.
My wife? I asked, a cold shiver racing down my spine.
My mum said they argued. She took the blame, because shed survive prison. Shes ill, often in hospital.
How do you know?
I heard them whisper Mom told me herself. He looked older than six.
Heat rose in my cheeks. I gripped the steering wheel with damp palms.
Why tell me this? Are you going to call the police?
My dads already paid his time. Can you be punished twice for the same crime? he asked, his eyes wide.
Probably not, I managed a strained smile.
We left the suburb, the road stretching ahead like a whitelined ribbon. The rain eased.
Where are we going? Tommy asked, a hint of fear in his voice.
Im thinking, I said, pulling over, lowering the window, inhaling the fresh, wet air. The traffic noise grew louder.
Are you alright? he asked, concern replacing his earlier bravado.
I felt a sudden compassion for this boy, for his mothers suffering, for my own endless torment. No, I whispered, Im lost.
The car turned back toward the city. The patch on the wall where Emma intended new wallpaper lingered in my mind, a stubborn reminder that some things never change.
The rain stopped. I bought a modest bottle of whisky from the corner shop, the price tag reading £12. I walked to the riverbank, sat on damp grass, and tipped the bottle straight into my throat. The burn flared through my stomach, and I lay back, eyes fixed on the sky as clouds broke apart, revealing a clear blue.
A hoarse voice called, Hey, mate, you alright? Youll catch a cold. Two teenagers stood over me. I must have fallen asleep on the grass. I scrambled to my feet, reached for my car.
Hey, want a drink? one teenager shouted.
Its too early for that, I muttered, picking up a nearly full bottle from the ground.
A sharp curse rose behind me, but I didnt turn. I slid back into the drivers seat and drove home. For the first time in two years, a strange lightness settled over me.
Thank God I didnt do something terrible, I whispered to the empty road, tears blurring the horizon. If only I could have a son I thought, the idea of new life both a comfort and a reminder of all that was taken.
Revenge, I realise now, is a life spent hating another. In chasing it, I squander the only unique life I have left. Even if I win, I lose myself.
