My name is Thomas. I am 72 years old. I have never killed anyone before today.
I am a patient man.
I sit at the corner of 7th and Manchester, two blocks from his house. He is Jim Gilbert. He is 67 years old. His wife is Lisa and they are happy. He has three sons and a daughter, in order of birth they are: Jacob, James, Jeremy and Jenna. Jacob is 47 and has three children of his own: Erik, Steven and Kara. Erik is 23, Steven is 17, and Kara is 12. James also has three children: Toby, 22, Richard, 20 and Stefan, 19. Jeremy has one child: Moses, 15. Jenna was married yesterday and is pregnant with her first. The spouses of Jim’s four children are independently successful, all of them with bright hopes and dreams. I am two blocks from the 23 and a half people I despise more than any one in the world.
I am a patient man, but I am a vengeful man.
I have tried to forgive Jim, but it is not possible. I have spent the last 53 years of my life trying to forgive Jim, but it is not possible.
At the park where I wait a couple passes, walking their dogs: a pair of pugs. Pugs are silly dogs to own. They are riddled with health problems and have short life spans. Many people think they are cute, but those people are wrong. Pugs are not cute.
A group of young women walk by me without noticing. There are six of them, all wearing jean shorts and bathing suit tops. I feel nothing for them. What used to be the penis between my legs stays shriveled and unused where it has remained faithfully for 53 years, two months and 17 days. The girls laugh as they leave me behind taking no notice of the harmless old man on the park bench.
None of the people in this park seem to have a worry in the world. The couple with the pugs arguing about finances, the six young women and their tan-lines, not one of them concerned with relishing what truly matters: love. Real love, not modern love. Dedication. Commitment. Respect. Love.
I check my watch: it’s 12:45pm. Church is out. Jim and his family will be home in 13 minutes if they walk. I stand and smooth out the wrinkles in my khaki pants. The muscles in my legs beg me to reconsider, but I push forward, asking only for a few more hours.
The man selling sno-cones smiles at me when I purchase my cherry slush. I tell him to keep the change and he acts grateful, but moves towards the next customer. Terry loved sno-cones. Her favorite flavor was cherry.
I begin to walk towards 9th, in the direction of the Gilbert dynasty.
I am patient. I am vengeance.
When I bite into the sno-cone I taste her. I taste Jenna. I drink in the memories of sunshine on the beach. I soak up the feel of her skin on my lips and the scent of her lavender lotion. I devour the recollection of her deep brown eyes and the wrinkles at their edges when she smiled. And then, like always, I recall the blood, the taste of her blood in my mouth when I awoke from the accident.
I dump what’s left of the sno-cone into the trash.
53 years. I will not be alive much longer. The time is coming.
I cross the street and approach 3717 Manchester. I remove the key ring from my pocket and let myself in. Nobody is home yet. They’re a little late. No worries.
The house is old, at least 65 years. I wonder for a moment about who was living here when Terry died. It has five bedrooms, but only one is used regularly. Jacob, James, Jeremy and Jenna all live in their own homes, staring their own families, but Jim keeps the bedrooms the way they were left by his offspring. He feigns sentimentality, that bastard.
Everyone is in town for Jenna’s wedding. Their plane tickets say that they will all be gone tomorrow.
In the kitchen I remove a butter-knife and slice open the bread I made that morning. Jim loves sourdough. He eats two loaves a week at least. After slicing all the bread and preparing the sandwiches, I place them on a platter in the center of the over-sized dining room table. Grapes and Oranges are also scattered across the table.
I am patient vengeance.
Each of the Oranges and grapes has been injected with a concentrated sleeping formula used in WWII as an “anesthesia” for wounded soldiers. Not too much, but enough to induce a deep sleep. I was drafted after Terry died. My apathy led to me great success in battle. My plan for revenge against he who had taken Terry, led me to remember anything and everything that could be used. The bread was also made special for the occasion.
The door opens and the clattering about begins. Jim greets me with a smile and some comment about “starving.” Lisa is rambling on with Jenna and her daughter-in-laws. Jacob, James, Jeremy and William (Jenna’s husband) are talking about colleges with Erik, Steven, Toby, Richard and Stefan. Moses pretends to be interested, but stares awkwardly at Kara, his attractive cousin who trails behind the rest of the women. All of them rumble on about church, the wedding and how hungry they are. Lucky for them, I have prepared lunch.
They sit around the table and talk amongst themselves some more. Most of it is idle chatter about what they are doing at work, what their children have accomplished at school, or how their vacation plans are coming for the next summer in Los Angeles.
I wait in the corner and watch them eat. All of them eat. They all gorge the lunch I place before them.
The children get drowsy first. They excuse themselves and pass out in front of the TV. Jenna, Lisa, and the wives of her sons follow suit. Each of them suggesting that, “a nap sounds delightful.” After the women leave, Jim asks me, “Edward, what did you put in these sandwiches? They are a knockout!”
He and his sons laugh. I laugh with them. I have been the Gilbert butler for over 23 years now.
“Sleeping potion sir.” Everyone laughs.
Then, in front of the TV with the children, the men all fall asleep.
I take my time, relishing every moment.
First I tie up Jim. My muscles ache and burn while I twist him around with the duct tape. His heavy breathing makes me smile.
I take a knife and cut the throats of his sons in the same order the came from the womb of his wife: Jacob, James and Jeremy.
I stab his seven grandchildren in the chest repeatedly, their eyes darting open as the blade enters between their ribs. They look at me, confused, and die. Moses takes a couple stabs when, after the first, he crawls towards his dead father in a bewildered fury. But they all die.
The women are the most brutal on my aged frame. As I slit their throats, each one shoots up gasping for air, blood spurting from their necks. They all writhe for a bit, while I wait impatiently, in the corner of the respective rooms for their hearts to quit.Then, against my neglected arms better interest, I drag them each down or up stairs, into the living room. As a final touch I set up his entire family around the room in a fashion deserving of a portrait – something to place over the mantle.
When Jim wakes up I can hear his muffled screams like a symphony from the kitchen where I wash up. I close my eyes and picture Terry the only way I can truly remember her: bloody and broken, hanging above me in tangled mass of steel that used to be my convertible. Her teeth dripping blood onto my face and her deep brown eyes flat and milky.
I stand directly behind him, out of his view and let him stare at the dead investments of his life for three hours. I do not move or say anything. I only listen. For three full hours I bathe my senses in his misery. I let his weeping wash away the 53 years of waiting, of loneliness, of death. When his ducts are dry and his breathing less sporadic I step out in front of him holding my favorite serrated blade.
He glares at me, a mixture of equal parts confusion and hate tearing at his eyes. “Jim, I have lied. My real name is Thomas. Terry’s Thomas.”
That is all it takes. Jim remembers. I see it in his face. Nobody, no matter how regretful can wipe clean a remembrance of murder. I can watch the events of his memory unfold as muscles tense on his face. He was a drunken teen. He is guilty. And he knows it.
“I was patient.”
He tried to look away, but the sight of his dead family forced his gaze back to me. I smile. My muscles stopped burning. I feel my manhood perk, not out of macabre arousal, but a more gentle life-affirming stimulation. I can hear Terry’s ghost whisper into my ear, “Thank you.” This is real love. Dedication. Commitment. Respect. Love.
Then, from overwhelming relief, I die.