Eye for an Eye: Resolve

 

I woke up soaked in sweat even though the AC was cranked up and rain descended aloud. It was a stormy night like this that took my parents away from me: murderers robbed them of their lives and made me an orphan at the age of 6. Since then, sleep had always abandoned me on stormy nights. Sixteen years had passed since that day, and I still woke up trembling on days like that. The nightmares didn’t help either; I still remembered it like it was yesterday.

It was a stormy night, and my dad was tucking me in when we heard my mother’s screams that were followed by gunshots. My father covered my mouth to stop me from making any noise. He looked at me with fear in his eyes—something I had never seen before.

“Nat, you need to hide in the closet, behind all the clothes, and not make a noise until I come for you.”

“No, daddy, I want to be with you,” I said, holding on to him tight.

“You need to be brave for me,” he said, pushing me inside the closet and locking it.

Daddy put the key in his pocket and walked out of the room. Just seconds later, I heard more gunshots. Little as I was, I knew my daddy wasn’t coming back for me. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, but I couldn’t. Was it because my daddy wanted me to be brave or was I frightened for my life? Maybe it was both.

I heard the sound of voices nearby and raised my head to check it out. I saw two dark men walk inside with guns in their hands. “This looks like the kid’s room, but where’s she, Roy?” one man asked the other.

“Am I supposed to know everything, Pete? You check under the bed, while I check the closet,”

I quickly crawled under the clothes, petrified. I covered my mouth with both my hands so they wouldn’t hear me breathe. My home was the one place in the world I should have felt safe, but that day, that was where I feared for my life.

Roy’s attempt at opening the closet was a failure. He peeped inside to see if anyone was visible. I don’t know if he noticed me or not, but I heard him say “There’s nothing here, let’s go.”

“Are you sure? Isn’t there supposed to be a kid?”

“Maybe she’s at a sleepover or some camp. What do you want from me?”

“Alright, let’s get out of here.”

I arose quietly as they walked away and sat there, alone and afraid, in that dark closet, not knowing what to do. I remembered how frightened I was of the dark, and how every night, daddy would check the closet and under the bed for monsters before tucking me into bed. On that day, I lost my fear of the dark because I realised that monsters didn’t come from the closet or from under the bed; they were walking among us.

I dozed off and woke up the next morning to the sound of sirens blasting outside my home. There were loud voices: one said “Oh Jesus! The prosecutor and his wife are dead!”

My dad was a prosecutor. My mother, on the other hand, was an Oncologist. Their words had just confirmed what I had feared. Cops came to my room and broke open the closet door. They moved the clothes and saw me lying in a corner. A female cop said, “Come on, honey; it’s safe.”

I didn’t feel safe, so I didn’t budge. The lady knew better than to push a traumatised kid, so she crawled inside and sat with me. She asked me if I was hungry; I nodded. She then got another cop to bring me cookies and milk. She was nice to me. She hugged me and for a moment, and I felt like I was in my mom’s loving arms. She carried me outside, put me in a police car, and drove me to the police station.

The cops kept asking me if I saw the men who broke into my house. They didn’t mention the murder of my parents, and I get why they didn’t: I was just a six-year-old kid, after all. But what was the use of beating around the bush when I already knew they were dead? I did see and hear them, I even knew their names, but I couldn’t say a word—not a single one.

I was shown to a child psychologist, who said that the trauma had made me lose my voice. She gave me paper and crayons, which I used to draw the criminals who made me an orphan. A six-year-old’s drawings weren’t much. The cops showed me photographs of criminals whom I didn’t recognise: there wasn’t any evidence except a 38-calibre bullet left behind at the crime scene. There were no fingerprints, and even though it was a rainy day, they managed to leave no footprints behind.

I remember they wore gloves, as well as booties over their shoes. I also remember their features and voices. My mother’s sister Gillian took me in. Her husband Curtis didn’t like me living with them. He said I brought bad luck. They often got into fights over me and he threatened to leave her if she didn’t send me away. In the end, she sent him away. I am thankful to my aunt for choosing me.

Today, I am a 22-year-old cop, and I am ready to avenge my parents. I became a cop, even though I had test scores that could have got me into medicine or law school. I joined the police force for one reason and one reason alone: to avenge my parents. Being a cop, I had the resources to track them down, which I did. Both of them owned a club called ‘Game On’. I needed to get a job there, but couldn’t take leave from work. So I did the next best thing: I got into a fight with a suspect and broke his nose so I’d be suspended. It worked like a charm: I was given two weeks’ suspension.

I joined the club as a waitress. I hated it, but had to suck it up to get what I wanted. Roy was always in the club, but Pete wasn’t. He was a silent partner who rarely came by and also had another club where he would spend most of his time at. I flirted with Roy, and he took the bait and called me after work to his room. After everyone had left, I went to his room and tapped on the door. After he invited me in, I walked inside and pulled out my gun.

“Jean, what’s going on?”

“I am not Jean. My name’s Natalie Andrews.”

“Andrews? Why does that name sound familiar? And what’s with the gun?”

“Noah and Eileen Andrews: you and your partner killed them 16 years ago!”

“Wait, you’re the kid in the closet?”

“What? You saw me?” I asked, stupefied. He nodded.

“Then why didn’t you kill me?”

“I don’t kill kids. I am a criminal, but I have to draw the line somewhere.”

“Well, you should have killed me when you had the chance. I am sorry, but this is an eye for an eye. But first, tell me: why my parents?”

“It wasn’t personal, kid. I was just doing my job,”

“What do you mean?” I questioned.

“I am merely a contract killer, and your parents were the targets.”

 “Who gave you the contract?”

“I’m sorry, but giving you that information will put my family at risk.”

“I’m a cop. I can protect your family.”

“Sorry, kid,” he said before pulling out a gun and blowing his brains out.

I was dumbfounded. I hurried out of the room and went straight home. “What just happened?” I asked myself. There was something else at play. But why did he shoot himself? Why not shoot me instead? Was it because I am a cop? Were there cops involved in my parents’ death? My head felt weary.

I needed to get rid of the evidence linking me to that club, so I removed my contact lenses and washed the false tattoo of a rose I had on my neck. I then rinsed the red dye off my hair and dumped the clothes I wore to the club in my neighbour’s garbage can since the next day was garbage day. I then deleted all the information on Roy and Pete on my phone and computer.