Through the Haze - Part Twenty

Sometimes it takes a good talking to, to get back on our feet. --Timothy Galdar, Book of Endings
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The fifteen-year-old sighed heavily as he traveled down the dirt trail on horseback, his sandy colored mare snorting quietly as they rode. In his hand was a small knife. He gripped it tightly as he stared ahead, his gray eyes narrowed into dangerously slits. He gripped the knife so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Anger and pain burned in his eyes like a raw wound that still bled.

"I'll kill you," he said aloud, his voice a mere whisper. "I'll get my revenge." the wind howled, blowing his black bangs into his eyes. He kept a neutral face, when all he really wanted to do was break down and cry. He was fifteen now; he shouldn't cry, but at the moment that was what he really wanted to do. "I'm sorry, Pa...I'm sorry, Ma...I'm sorry, Nittallie..." he hung his head low, feeling tears burn his eyes.

He would NOT cry. He couldn't Not until he got his revenge.

He slowed his mare, Ramili, to a stop and jumped off of her back. He undid her bit and pulled his gear off. Slowly, he looked her in the eyes and patted her head. "You've done my family good, girl. I'm proud of you. You're free now; you can go." he moved away, afraid of crying. He was giving away the last connection to the life he once knew. To the life he had just yesterday morning. "Go."

As if understanding his words, Ramili snorted and trotted off into the trees, without once looking back. He sighed heavily and hefted his backpack over his shoulder.

He put the knife into his boot-like shoe and pulled a small black revolver out of his backpack. There were only five bullets in it, but that was okay. He only planned on using one. Maybe two.

He was going to kill the bastard. He didn't plan on coming out alive, though. If he did, he would put the gun to his head and fire. He'd already lost everything; why not lose his life, too? It really didn't matter to him. Not anymore. Not after what happened yesterday.

He shivered just thinking about it. 'Don't go there,' he told himself silently. 'Don't, Anthony.'

He sighed again and walked down the hill. A small house stood in the distance, a few yards away. Smoke emerged from the chimney, letting him know that someone was home. He continued forward.

The bastard would pay for what he'd done. He'd pay for what he did to his family.

'Why'd he leave me alive?' he thought to himself. 'Why? Does he want me to suffer or something? Why'd he let me live?'

Growing frustrated with unanswerable questions, he continued forward. He looked up at the sky. It was still an hour or two until sunset; he would wait until then. He sat down on the ground and pulled a canteen of water out of his backpack.

He wouldn't attack until dark, when the bastard least expected it.

"I'm comin' for ya," he murmured to himself. "I hope you're ready to die. Because I want my revenge."

He looked up at the sky, counting the minutes until he would attack. Time just didn't seem to go by fast enough. He wanted to strike NOW, to make that bastard pay for what he'd done, but he knew it would have to wait. He'd have to be patient if he was going to do this right, if he was going to kill him.

He was going to have to wait until dark. Then he'd move in for the kill, like an animal stalking its prey. He closed his eyes and let his breath out slowly.

Just a little while till dark. He could wait. He'd have to. If he wanted to do this right, he knew he'd have to wait. Being rash would do him no good whatsoever.

And he knew it.

He sighed and lay back in the grass, feeling the tears come to the surface of his eyes. He blinked them back, refusing to let them spill out. 'I won't cry,' he thought to himself. 'I won't cry right now. When I've killed that bastard, then I can cry, but then and only then.'

"I'll get my revenge, Pa..." he whispered into the wind. "I promise."