Vengeance is an outcome
that cannot be achieved without
doing the thing itself, which is vengeance.
— The Bitter End
Doug got off work at 11pm.
I was in his home, waiting. I'd been there many times. So when I decided this would be the last time, I knew what to do and I worked fast.
I found his stash of roofies and poured them into the creamer in his fridge. Surely, it would be more than enough to kill him when he made his morning coffee. But first, we were going to have a conversation.
He didn't know it, but this would be his only chance to change his fate.
I was sitting on his couch, in the dark, when he arrived.
He opened the door. I waited some more.
He closed the door and flipped the lock. He saw me as soon as he turned on the light.
"Jesus Christ!" he screamed.
"Lock, then light," I said. "That's an interesting approach. I'da turned on the light first, so I could look around the room before I locked myself in. But hey, that's just me. Different strokes for different folks, I guess."
He was frozen in place. Probably because my arm was stretched straight forward. And in my hand, was a big shiny gun.
What kind of gun?
Fuck if I know.
It was cold, and heavy. It was formidable. And it was his. The gun was stupidly heavy, in fact, which meant it was time for him to sit the fuck down. You try holding a brutal hunk of steel two feet in front of you.
Steel. What an ironic word, considering the situation. I wasn't stealing his gun though. I just wanted his full attention.
Like a good boy, Doug kept the gun locked in a safe. Like a clever bitch, I had the key.
But he was no good boy, and I was on a mission.
"Step forward, Doug. Then sit, on the floor. Put your hands behind your head and keep them there. I'm just here for a chat, but this thing is loaded and I've got a cleanup crew if things get messy."
That was a lie. Foke was my answer if things got messy, but he didn't have a cleanup crew. He didn't need one. The remnants of his messes were left as a message for whatever unlucky bastards found them.
That's how it's done.
As Boogie had once oh so eloquently stated, long before he himself became a nameless mess for some horrified fuck to shovel out and mop up, "Got no face now. Got no name now."
Doug still had a face. It had been burned in my brain since the day I let him go, after he tried to slip roofies in my drink and date-rape me. I tricked him into switching the drinks. Damn fool drugged himself. Sure, I tortured him when he woke up, but I let him go. Mother fucker started to cry, and I let him off the hook.
I let him go.
That was a lapse in judgment.
That was then.
This was judgment day.
"You...??!!??"
"Yes, me, Doug."
God, how I wanted to take the gun and twirl it on my finger, like they do in the movies. I knew if I tried, I'd be more likely to shoot myself than him, but God, I wanted to. I brought the gun closer to my body instead. Badass-bitch pose be damned. My arm was getting tired.
He said, "You're the one who put dye in my clothes?"
I was surprised that he was surprised.
"Lipstick, asshole. In your washer, presumably. But I wouldn't know because I'd never do that. That'd be mean. As opposed to putting roofies in a girl's drink, which you did. What was that? An act of kindness? Was that you being a sweetie pie?"
"What... do you want?"
"I want answers, Doug. And I want vengeance."
As that word came out of my mouth, I was surprised I'd said it. I was more surprised by how good the word felt on my lips. Vengeance. The hard V, where your teeth press against your lower lip, followed by a pair of Ns and a g, spread across two syllables, ending with a trailing Sssss that leaves the tongue like a slithering snake. Vennngeannnsssse. The word feels like it sounds. And it sounds good.
Vengeance is a noun, but it's really a noun and a verb all wrapped up in one.
Vengeance is a doing word.
"Vengeance is an outcome that cannot be achieved without doing the thing itself, which is vengeance, Doug."
It wasn't until I heard myself say his name that I realized I'd been talking out loud.
"Well, shit. I gotta admit, that's an oops. That was supposed to be one of those Just For Me thoughts, but since I said it... Yeah. That's why I'm here. Vengeance is what I want. And it's what you'll provide."
As I stared at him, staring at me, staring at him staring at me, it occurred to me that I hadn't thought this through.
Well, that's an oops too.
"It's alright if you didn't think it through," Doug said. "It's not too late to stop."
"WHAT??? Oh, shit. Was I talking out loud again? Sorry bro. I'm losing track of words and thoughts, and HEY. Why the FUCK am I apologizing to YOU???"
"Is that what you want? An apology?"
"If I came here to shoot you, you'd already be dead. But I'm not here for an apology either."
"Then, what?"
"I need to understand why you think you have the right to do what you did."
"What I did?"
"DOUG!!! You tried to slip drugs in my drink, at The Bitter End, a few years ago. You were gonna rape me. I demand to know what you think gives you the right."
"I know I was wrong. I said I was wrong."
"But you knew it was wrong. You still tried to do it."
"I don't know what you want me to say."
"You knew. You tried anyway. Tell me why."
"I don't know."
"Bullshit. I wanna know why."
"Look, I don't know. I fucked up."
"You wanted sex? Is that it? You didn't have to try to drug me. I'da put out."
That's a lie. Probably. Oh, fuck you too. It's OK if guys are easy, but whoa motherfucking whoa if every woman on Earth who hasn't had kids isn't a virgin? Fuck you too.
"I never said women have to be virgins."
And fuck me. I was totally losing track of in-the-head and out-of-mouth.
"Doug, we both know it wasn't about wanting to get laid. What was it about? Power? Say it."
"I don't know."
"That's a lie. New rule. You lie, you get shot. I'm asking for the last time. What was it about."
I needed to know, but he said nothing.
"Fuck you, Doug. I'm gonna count to five. Answer fast, because six comes with a bullet. Three."
"Wait. What happened to one and two?"
"FIVE."
"STOP!!! PLEASE!!! Look, I thought I could get away with it, OK? I thought I could get away with it. That's why. OK?"
"Not OK. Not OK. Not OK, Doug. MOST DEFINITELY NOT OK. MY GOD. NOT OK. NEVER OK. FUCK!!!!!"
I got up from the couch, mostly because my feet were pressing down on the floor, in anger, and I started to rise because I forgot I was sitting.
I was filled with rage, but I didn't know what to do with it, and I didn't know how to end the conversation, though I knew how to end Doug, but it couldn't be like this, not when I'd already done the work of doing the job a better way. I'd seen to it before he came home. The job was already done, but it wasn't time yet. Not yet. Not like this. I couldn't shoot him, but I didn't know how to not shoot him, and I didn't know how to not not shoot him. And I could hear screaming.
My God, the screaming. His, and mine.
Not yet, I said to myself. It's coming. In the morning. Don't kill him now. Don't shoot him, because in the morning. I knew what he'd do in the morning, and I knew it would be the end. His end. But I couldn't concentrate on that now because of the screaming. His, and mine, and more.
There was so much screaming. Some of it was in my head, some of it was coming out of my mouth. Some of it was his. Some of it was coming from the sirens. Some of it was coming from the men. Some of it was Doug, screaming at the men who were screaming at me, screaming at Doug. So much screaming. I didn't know how to make it stop.
The men.
"Oh God, oh God," the voice coming from my mouth screamed.
"Got a gun! Drop the gun!" the men screamed.
"Get her! Just get her!" Doug screamed.
"Get down! I said get down!" the men screamed.
The gun left my hand. It hit the floor with an awful clang. Defeated. I hit the floor too, with a thud. But the screaming wouldn't stop.
The screaming in my head wouldn't stop.
The Earth stopped spinning.
At least for me.
Everything seemed to move in slow motion as if the arc of time itself had not bent, but broken.
I was broken.
I was lifted.
And I wobbled and I swayed as I was pushed forward. The policemen pushed me through the living room and the foyer, and then out the door, to a squad car.
A hand on my head pushed me down, and into the car.