Tasting Revenge (POV 2)

Posted on: May 19, 2013

Note:  This is the Point of View of the antagonist, Jackson.



Old man Ross couldn’t have taken longer inside the store.  I tried my best to keep my distance as I followed him.  My fingers tugged at the loose strings of my sweater, tattered and torn, just like my insides felt.  I cursed myself for wearing such heavy clothing during 95º heat, yet I didn’t have much of a choice.

I waited patiently beside my van as the object of my rage and hatred walked toward his car.  He didn’t deserve that Impala.  It should have gone to me, not to my dad’s war buddy.

I could feel adrenaline coursing through my veins like nitroglycerin as I pulled the gun out, which I had successfully concealed beneath the waistband of my jeans. 

“Stop right there,” I tried to project my voice and sound stern and strong, yet I feared I sounded weak.  The voices inside my head continued to taunt me and say that I was a failure, and that I couldn’t do it.  My dad’s voice was the loudest, and no matter how hard I tried, I could never ignore it.

He called me son and protested; yet his so-called term of endearment only fueled my anger.  “It’s too late for that, old man,” I spat.  “Get in your car, and listen to my directions.  Or else you’ll never make it to that party.”

I had anticipated more of a fight from the old man, yet received none.  I knew his son Ed well, and worked with him often down at the funeral home.  His son was a doctor, and I was simply an assistant.  Ed had mentioned his son Abel’s birthday party, and I knew instantly that it was the perfect time to track down Ross and confront him.

He drove too slowly for my taste, yet I remained patient as we made it to my dad’s house in Buckridge.  I ushered him out of the car with some force.  He needed to know that I meant business.  I rolled my eyes as he stumbled and I pressed my gun against his back.  “Come on, come on, get inside.”

He made some insignificant talk about cutting him some slack, yet I wasn’t having it.  I kicked the back of his leg, which sent him into the dirt.  It was befitting, for he was just as significant as dirt, if not less.

After getting him inside, I struggled to pull the zip tie around his wrists.  I knew he was old, yet he still looked like he held onto at least some of his former strength.  I let him know that I was going to the shed, since my dad’s tools were there.

I was going to make him feel the same pain as I felt when the soldiers in uniform walked up to my front door and told my mom and I that my father had been killed in action.  I was going to rip his heart from him, just like he had done to me.


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