Journal Week Three Finding Your Core Material

     The Stranger

    Long legs shot upwards to a broad-shouldered torso.  Resting on top of the strong shoulders sits an ovular head.  What I would assume to most women would be a handsomely chiseled face with sharp details. Hazel brown eyes, slicked-back black hair, and light stubble. He moves with such graceful elegance that it distracts one from noticing the clack of his dark tan dress boots, which contracted to his muted gray suit. As he casually strolled down the chaotic aisles of food, knickknacks, clothing, and junk. Out of sheer chance, he looked at me and I looked at him. Our eyes locked only for a second, but in that second he knew everything about me, and I knew even less about him than I did before. He cracked a smile at me, the kind that one does to a decades-old friend. His front left tooth had a small chip in it. He winked at me and returned his attention forward towards the cashier.

The cashier was an old man. He was probably in his mid to late sixties but looked much older. Not the kind of weathered old that one has from years of hard labor, but like the knowledge that he would never escape this tourist trap town, never sell the junky family-owned general store.

“Heya Pops.”  The dapper man says as he leans on the checkout counter.

“What can I do for ya?” The cashier responds with a fraudulent cheer in his voice.

“You got any cigarettes, vape, booze whatever?”

“Not since the mayor shitcanned my license a few years back.”

The man clicks his tongue in disappointment. “Dang, you got anything that’ll make the night go by easier?”

The cashier pauses for a moment. Then points over his shoulder to a box of condoms on the shelf behind him.

“Oh you flatter me Pops, but you’re mistaken.” He taps the counter twice as he turns to leave. As he strides towards the exit once again all the tacky tourists pause their mindless shopping and intensely stare as passes by. Isle by isle he walks by coming closer and with each step I feel my heart pounding harder in my chest.

Once he reaches the isle that I was perusing he stops his elegant stride. Twisting on the balls of the feet he turns to look at me. He sticks out his hand and cracks his chipped grin.

“Hi, I’m Bello and you seem interesting. Can you help me with something?”

I hesitate for a moment.

“Yes.” I reach out and firmly grasp his hand.

The Revenge.

It was my twenty-first birthday. I stumble home with a hefty bag of all sorts of booze. As I opened the door I couldn’t wait to share my first legal drink with my parents and older sister.
“I’m home” I shouted into the hall. I greeted with silence. I shrugged. They were probably trying to pull some surprise party thing I figured. I shuffled towards the kitchen balancing the thing paper bag full of heavy glass bottles in my arms. I turn the corner into the kitchen. I lost all feeling in my body. I let the bag slip out of my hands and the contents shatter on the wooden floor.

My mother, my father, my sister lay on the ground in a cocktail of their own blood. All lie twisted and misshapen around the kitchen table. At the table reclines a man dressed in a dark green suit, feet kicked up on and resting on the table my father made for my mother as a fifth-anniversary gift.

“Van Damme!” I screeched in a wild fury. I charged towards the bastard but tripped over the brown sack I had just dropped. Face first I landed in my family’s blood. I could taste the sour liquid. I tried to move but I couldn’t, all I could do is scream. All that he did was laugh. As I marinated in their gore paralyzed in fury, he had the audacity to laugh.

“Please,” He chuckled, “Call me Richter.” He got up from his chair and glided towards me. I wanted to reach out and grab him, to punch him, to kill him. I tried with every ounce of my will but I couldn’t. 

He kicked me in the ribs. I could feel them break, but any pain from it was drowned out by the pain of my heart. He grabbed the back of my skull and hoisted my head up by my hair. He looked into my eyes and smirked. With incredible force, he smashed my head down onto the floor. 

“Nobody defies Richter and gets away with it boy.” He growls.

Perhaps it was my nose breaking that jolted me out of my state. Maybe it was my teeth shredding my tongue, either way. I reached out and grabbed his ankle and with inhuman strength, I yanked it out from under him sending him toppling back. He hit his head on the table on his way to the ground. 

I pounced on him, clawing, biting, punching, kicking, flailing in uncontrolled wrath. He kicks me back and I rolled across the floor on top of my sister’s husk. Stupidly I paused for a moment to take a good look at her. It was enough for Van Damme to collect himself. He hurled a chair at me and the heavy oak cracked against my skull. I coughed up a lungful of blood.

It knocked me back down onto my sister’s chest. Her chest that’s it! I ripped off her necklace, a nice sharp cross. I subtly wedged it between my ring and middle fingers and played dead.

Richter carefully strolled up, not to slip on the bloody floor. He was ready to make the final blow. I wouldn’t let him have the chance. With the speed of a cheetah, I swung myself around and punched his ribs. The cross penetrated his flesh and he slipped. He landed on his back. Without hesitation, he kicked me back. I slid across the floor bumped into the sack of booze I had dropped earlier.

He started to get up, so did I. I stuck my hand into the bag and grabbed a piece of jagged glass. The sharp edges shredded my hands. I jumped at Richter. Once again we both fell the ground. Rolling on top of each other in an attempt of power I had gotten the upper hand. I dragged the shard of glass across his face. From the top of his left ear to the right corner of his chin.

For perhaps the first time in his life he screamed, and I smiled. I aimed my weapon at his jugular and went in for the kill.

BANG! The shot rang in my ears. Fresh blood gushed from my chest into the pool of family blood. I looked down at Richter. He had a gun. Of course, he shot my family, I had seen the bullet holes, why didn’t he use the gun earlier. I would never know. I fell from on top of him. The light was fading. The last thing I saw was Richter looking down at me, blood dripping from the gash on his face. The last thing I thought as things went black was he had gotten his revenge.