An Eye for an Eye

“Jen, you’re gonna have to get out of bed eventually,” A voice called out to me from the other room, rousing me from my sleep just enough to lift my head from the pillow. I let the tension leak back out of my neck immediately afterwards, my face meeting the soft feather pillow I’d come to know so well. Footsteps tapped across the hallway near my door, raising the hairs along my arms as they got closer and closer. In a feat of desperation to avoid the oncoming storm, I pulled my quilt all the way past my head and curled up towards the end of the bed. “God dammit, Jennifer. I’m going to wrench you from that bed if it’s the last thing I ever do!” My mother grouched, stomping from towards my current resting place.

I gripped at my sheets tightly, grumbling, “Fight me, ma. I’m never getting up again.”

She’d gotten me downstairs and sitting at the kitchen table within 5 minutes.

A bowl of unfrosted mini-wheats was placed in front of me quite unceremoniously, and I nearly spilled the milk everywhere in a tired stupor. My mother tsked at this, busy by the stove making herself a plate of scrambled eggs.

“... I want eggs,” I murmured pathetically, stirring my cereal around in mindless circles.

Apparently the breakfast dragon had heard me, because the eggs she was making quickly found themselves in my bowl. I ate begrudgingly, trying to ignore the conflicting textures of milk, mini-wheats, and egg whites. My mother busied herself further as she made more food to make up for what she’d wasted on me. “I don’t care that you fucking killed some asshole,” She began unsympathetically, “No daughter of mine is going to waste her life away in a puddle of sadness.”

I tried to put her words into perspective, but the ‘puddle of sadness’ that I had become wouldn’t allow for optimism. “... But I literally ended someone’s life, mom. Cut me some slack!” I whined, stiffly getting up from my place at the table to put my dishes in the sink.

She swatted at me with a dirty spatula, getting bacon grease on my shoulder. “I did give you some slack! You haven’t left the house for three weeks!” Mother scolded, “What happened to coming home past three AM and screwing hot guys from the bar?”

“I killed someone!” I rebuttled lamely, this having become my most useful argument.

“He would’ve killed you too, hun. It’s not your fault,” She replied briskly, for the first time soundingtruly fed-up with my bullshit, “We didn’t move to New York for you to let your life slip away. You act like you were the one who was killed.”

“That’s not very Christian of you, mom…”

“Neither was divorcing your father, but look where we are now? Much better off without him,” Mother quipped, effectively ending our scuffle. This had become her most useful argument about 6 years ago, when she’d done the aforementioned deed. It was true that we were much better off now, mostly due to my mother’s business taking off shortly after the divorce. We both agreed that he’d been holding the family back, but she liked to think that everyone was opposed to her decision. Mom was like that, no one asked why. No one wanted to get chewed out for asking.

During my three weeks of hibernation, my mother had gathered up a large list of things for me to do over the next several days, all of which I protested vehemently against doing. She forced me to take a decent shower, put on my big-girl panties, and get over myself. I was at the grocery store about two hours after my unappealing breakfast, a sloppily-written shopping list clutched in one hand and a thick, plastic basket in the other.

A perplexed scrunch to my face, I eyed the scrap of paper carefully. My mother’s chicken scratch was almost indecipherable - at this rate, I’d be here till next Tuesday. Off in the distance, a case of Cool Whip caught my interest, and I sped up my pace to get to it.

Grasping the edge of the container, I jokingly stroked the packaging to express my love for the unhealthy, sweet condiment. I paid little attention to the fact that I was alone and in public, and paid even less attention as I made my way to the cash register, falling on my ass near a ‘wet floor’ sign before I could get past aisle four.

My first trip out in weeks turned out more embarrassing than my mom could’ve guessed. I’d evidently lost the ability to read, walk, and function civilly. What a life I was living!

Of course, none of that could’ve prepared me for the next few moments of my life. I walked from the grocer with my tattered pride tucked under my arm, and was promptly ambushed from the side. Hands flew everywhere, my arms getting tangled in other arms as a thick piece of fabric was slipped over my eyes, and a palm was clamped tightly over my mouth. I kept struggling regardless of the futility, guessing that there were at least two people attacking me. Panic flooded through my veins quicker than I could think, realization catching up with me.

This wasn’t like last time. These people had a mission, and they weren’t lowly assholes like the poor soul I’d managed to kill. I was the victim of calculated assault, and it wasn’t likely that I’d get away with my life.

I’d lost consciousness somewhere between my parking spot and their car, where they’d cracked my head against the blacktop before shoving me into the backseat with my wrists and ankles zip-tied together.

I’d regained consciousness somewhere between this fugly basement and my personal hell. A rapid, panicked assessment of my limbs and bodily functions told me that my blindfold had been removed, and my ankles and wrists were still bound. Besides a throbbing headache, everything seemed to be in working order. That, and I really had to take a piss.

My heartbeat quickened at the sudden sounds that echoed through the ceiling, the people on the floor above clearly having more mobility than I. Straining to hear the words that bled through the poor insulation around me, I rocked myself into a seated position and stood up on feet that had been pushed too close together for walking. No matter how much I tried, though, I couldn’t make out what the upstairs people were conversing about.

As it turns out, I didn’t need to try. The upstairs people were coming to me.

Heavy footsteps clomped down a rickety set of risers, several people traveling my way at once. In a fit of anxious stupidity, I backed myself in the nearest corner and sunk as close as I could to the ground. A gaggle of laughs filled the air, filling me with more terror than the muffled speaking I’d been dealing with earlier. No words were exchanged between myself and my captors. I was simply dragged up to my feet and toted like a neatly-wrapped gift up the stairs they’d just traveled down.

Nobody spoke to me; the large, darkly-garbed men talked only to each other, making jokes like they weren’t escorting a captive towards God-knows-where. I did not struggled this time, knowing that I was outmatched and outclassed. They did not seem grateful for my cooperation, despite the fact that I was making their work so much easier.

Instead of being thrown into a lit furnace, like I thought I was going to, I was simply plopped in another room. It was a dingy room, stinking of tabacco and spilled whiskey. My nose crinkled at the scent, tears boiling behind my eyes as the horrid atmosphere increased my panic. The rug beneath me felt dry and crusty, digging into my sensitive skin and likely giving me a bad case of rug burn. A hand roughed up my hair as my captors stood off to the side of me, as if making way for something greater.

And that's when I noticed. I'd been plopped just a few feet in front of a long-legged, shadowy man who was sitting with his legs crossed on a leather couch, taking a long drag from an expensive-looking cigarette. Inwardly, I flushed with embarrassment. I'd been so caught up in myself that I hadn't even registered that there was another human in the room.

He didn't pay any mind to my dissociation, just flicked ashes off the end of his cancer stick. The man did not even glance up at me, his eyes lazily wandering some distant corner of the room that I could not see from my place on the floor. I waited for him to say something, anything, but several moments passed by with my trepidation only increasing. Maybe it was just my paranoia, but I could've sworn I'd seen his hand twitch. I flinched involuntarily, preparing for him to burn me with the lit of of his smoke. Giggles came from beside me - apparently it wasn't so subtle.

Minutes passed. Several minutes passed. Neither of us made any move. The only sounds came from the murmurs of the men to the right of me. I couldn't focus on them, however. There was a funny feeling in the back of my mind that told me I shouldn't be too worried about what they had to say.

Minutes passed. Minutes passed. Minutes passed.

He didn’t move.

I didn’t move.

“You fucked up, Jennifer. I’m sure you’ve already figured that out.”

Notes

Reposted and edited from the account "loserless". I was locked out and wanted to have all of my works on one account. Check out my other two stories if you like my writing and are interested in reading more! Leave a comment if you have the time.