Cruel Saint

Confucius once said, “Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.”

A wise sentiment, and for most people, probably true.

Revenge was a dangerous business, even under the most noble of reasons. If you hoped to rain vengeance down on another, you’d better be prepared to pay the ultimate price — your life.

But that was the problem with Confucius’ warning.

For those of us who had been wronged in such a deplorable, egregious way, we’d already paid the ultimate price.

We were already dead.

At least, I was.

I may draw breath. My heart may beat. The neurons in my brain may fire.

For all intents and purposes, I died five years ago.

And now I would make those responsible suffer the same torment I’d endured since that fateful day.

I would have my revenge, even if it was the last thing I did, to hell with Confucius’ warnings.

Revenge was why I was here. Why I’d spent the past year of my life becoming someone else. To make them feel my pain. My betrayal.

My anger.

I thought it would get easier as time went by. 

After all, I’d survived. Shouldn’t I have been content with that? Shouldn’t I have found solace in the gift of life when I should have died a hundred times over?

Therein lay the problem. 

I no longer viewed life as a gift, but as a cruel curse. Each day was a slow descent into agony as I was left to rot in a hellish purgatory, praying for salvation or damnation.

While I was forced to suffer excruciating pain, they all carried on with their lives, forgetting about me as quickly as if I’d never existed.

As if we hadn’t made promises to each other, only for her to break them the instant I was gone.

At one point, she was my world. I thought I was hers.

How long did she wait before finding comfort in another man’s arms? In my traitor’s arms?

A year? A month?

A week?

The mere thought of it turned my blood hot, my chest squeezing at how truly insignificant I was. The newspaper I held crinkled in my hands, images of fists and blood flashing before my eyes, as so often happened whenever I thought about the hell I’d endured.

“Are you doing okay? Can I get you any more coffee?” 

A cheerful voice yanked me out of my memories, and I snapped my attention to the barista of the coffee shop I’d been coming to every morning since moving to San Diego a few weeks ago.

All because she did.

I hadn’t approached her yet. Hadn’t even been within a few feet of her.

Instead, I’d simply watched her. 

After a year of strategizing and scheming their downfall, it all hinged on her. She was the key, my golden ticket to vengeance.

Unfortunately, that came with its own risks. If anyone might figure out who I was beneath the layers of scars marring my body and the new face I wore as a result of several reconstructive surgeries due to even more injuries, it was her.

The woman I once dreamed of sharing my life with.

The woman I thought once dreamed of sharing her life with me.

Now, she was nothing more than a distant memory, a cruel reminder of everything I'd lost. Everything they’d stolen from me.

And now I was going to steal everything from them.

I could just kill them all, as Henry had reminded me time and again, especially if I didn’t care what happened to me in the end. I’d gone into this fully prepared to sacrifice myself. 

But they deserved to feel my pain. To feel helpless as they lost everything they cared about.

And when they were at their lowest, I’d stare into their eyes as they took their last breath.

No. They didn’t deserve a painless death.

They deserved a fucking reckoning.

They acted as my judge, jury, and executioner.

I planned on returning the favor in kind.

An eye for an eye.

A soul for a soul.

“No thanks,” I told the barista in a disinterested tone. 

“Sure thing.” She gracefully glided through the patio area, wiping down the tables, even though it was unnecessary at this early hour. So far, the only other customers had been a few locals grabbing their coffee before heading to work.

“Her name’s Ginny,” she stated casually as she worked.

“Excuse me?” I snapped my head in her direction, my brows furrowed.

“The girl you watch every morning. Her name’s Ginny. Her drink of choice is an Americano with steamed two percent and a stevia sweetener.”

I clenched my jaw, fighting against the urge to correct her. Tell her that her real name was Imogene. 

“Am I that obvious?” I asked, keeping my voice light.

“A little.” She shrugged. “Work in a coffee shop long enough and you notice things. Like I noticed you started to come at the same time every morning and sit outside when most people just grab their coffee and rush off.”

“I like to watch the sunrise over the ocean.” I gestured at the shoreline mere yards away, the waves sweeping onto the sand before being pulled back. Its dark waters reflected a soft orange glow from the rising sun behind the mountains. 

“This is California." She narrowed her gaze at me. "The sun sets over the ocean. It doesn’t rise.”

“I still like this time of day before the world wakes up.”

“All the more reason you should talk to her. I’m pretty sure she does, too.” She nodded into the distance.

I followed her line of sight as a familiar silhouette came into view, the sky a mixture of pinks and blues behind her. Regardless of the early hour, the temperature was already nearing sixty, causing a sheen of sweat to dot her smooth skin. With each of her long strides, her blonde ponytail swung back and forth. 

A memory, vivid and painful, played in front of my eyes, stealing my breath.

Running along the beach with her during a weekend trip to Hilton Head. The overwhelming desire to feel every inch of her as soon as we got back to our hotel room. Her pushing me away, claiming she was too sweaty. Picking her up and carrying her into the shower, where we lost ourselves in each other until our skin was pruned and our hunger satisfied.

But not for long.

It never was with us.

I tried to distract myself from the memories by sipping my lukewarm coffee and admiring the view of the California coastline before it became overrun with tourists. But as she grew near, I found it increasingly difficult to keep my attention focused on anything but her.

So much so that when her gaze locked with mine, I couldn’t find the strength to look away, even though all reason told me that was exactly what I should do.

Especially when she faltered in her steps, her brows furrowed in confusion. 

It was the first time I’d stared into her eyes in over five years. I’d watched her from afar, studied her as if it were my job.

In a way, it was.

But I hadn’t allowed myself to get too close for this very reason. 

Did she recognize me? 

I knew it was a risk, but I convinced myself it was impossible. Even Henry hadn’t recognized me when I showed up on his doorstep after having supposedly died four years prior. It wasn’t until I told him things about myself that no one else could have known that he realized I was telling the truth. In the aftermath, I endured facial reconstruction surgery, as well as a handful of cosmetic surgeries, all with the added benefit of making my appearance bear little resemblance to the man I once was.

The man who the world thought was still dead.

I held my breath as Imogene’s eyes darted over my features, as if trying to place me.

As if wondering if she’d seen a ghost.

A desperate part of me wanted her to recognize me. Wanted her to call out my name. My real name, not the persona I’d taken on this past year in order to put my plan into motion.

Her lips parted and she cautiously stepped closer, a question seemingly on the tip of her tongue. But then she stopped, shaking her head and continuing along the beachfront path, heading toward her townhouse so she could get on with her day.

And her life.

Little did she know, her life was about to be shattered into unrecognizable pieces.

And I was holding the hammer.