A Night in the CemeteryMature

Just a short, fun revenge story.

It’s cold. I can’t see anything. Something – a bug, maybe – is crawling up my leg. I feel something gritty on my face. Dirt. Where am I? I wonder frantically. I feel around. I’m in a wooden box. A coffin. I’m running out of oxygen. I punch the lid. It doesn’t budge. My heart starts pounding against my rib cage. I keep trying. No success. I scream and punch the lid again. The wood cracks, spilling a little dirt into the coffin. Coughing, I hit the lid once more. My hand bursts through, allowing splinters to dig into my skin. My arm starts to bleed a bit. It stings, but I bite my lip hard and repeatedly punch the wood with both of my hands. Dry soil pours into the coffin. Some enters my mouth. I dig quickly, desperately trying to reach the surface. Sitting up, I finally poke my head above the ground.

            I’m in a graveyard. The headstones look menacing in the orange glow of the harvest moon. I climb out of the casket and wipe the dirt off my clothes. I know who left me here. Max Centilus. He invited me to dinner last night. Or was it tonight? My memory is hazy. I cry tears of happiness. I avoided death. I exit the graveyard and head toward Feldspar Street. I’m going to kill him. He won’t escape. I smile grimly as I wander down the streets. There aren’t any street lights. Small neighborhoods don’t get the luxury. I’m standing on his front porch. I feel a funny feeling down below. He raped me. I’ll make him fucking pay.

            I open the window in the front and climb in. Stupid bastard doesn’t know how to lock windows apparently. I walk to the kitchen and grab the butcher’s knife from the block. I know how I’ll kill him. It’ll be great. I creep up the stairs and down the hallway to his room. I can hear him snoring. It sounds like a damn chainsaw. It’ll stop soon.

            I open the door and step in. His wife is home. She’s beautiful. Too bad. She has to go as well. I go to Max’s side of the bed and take off the blanket. He’s naked. Anger fuels my adrenalin. Swiftly, I castrate the monster. He screams. The next cut severs his jugular. Choking, he dies slowly, drowning in his own blood. His wife, Angeline, is still sleeping, which surprises me. Perhaps she doesn’t have to die . . . In his blood, I write the word “rapist” and “scum” on his forehead. I then return home.

 

The End

The End

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