Moonlit Retribution

Chapter Twelve

“Tony?” I call softly. I know this is exactly what you’re not supposed to do--call out for people that you aren’t sure are actually there--but I’m desperate and so scared that I’m practically choking on my heartbeat.

A solid shadow materializes in the gloom before my bed. Even though it remains motionless, I somehow know that its intentions are malicious. And I know it’s not Drew, because the shadow isn’t that filled out. Instead of reassuring me, this just opens up other portals of horrible instances in my mind. I fight off the urge to jackknife in my bed and race for the door screaming. Instead, I grasp the knife in a hold that would successfully execute a downward plunge, should the need arise. I haven’t sharpened it lately, feeling that it wasn’t necessary, but now I feel like punching myself for my idiocy. I maintain my deep breathing, trying to feign sleep, but I can hear how shallow and forced it is. It’s useless, anyway. Whatever it is, it knows I’m awake.

I don’t know how long I lie there, breathless, motionless, the silence slowly eating away at my sanity, and my fear raising goose bumps and sweat on my clammy skin. The knife’s handle is slipping from my palm, too lubricated by sweat to stay in place.

Ríjez, I swear to God if that’s you…

And now it’s walking towards me.

I jump back, pressing my back against the wall, and brandish the knife. The shadow pauses and tilts its head, curiously or mockingly, I really don’t know. But it stays there, motionless yet again, only this time it’s close enough for me to hear its slow, deep breathing. It sounds like the Jeepers Creepers guy, and it sets my panic level to Hysteria--Do Not Approach, my heartbeat skyrocketing to the point that it’s a wonder I’m not convulsing, my pulse thundering in my ears as my vision tunnels. Blackness meets blackness, and I can’t tell shadow from definite form. There’s a sharp sound close by. It takes me awhile to realize that it’s my hitched breathing.

“Tony?” I eek out again. “Tony, I swear to God, if--”

“Don’t call me Tony.”

Relief hits me so hard that it’s like being smacked with a sack of bricks. Then enters the fury and mortification that come with being scared out of your mind for no credible reason. “You asshole!” I shriek in a half-whisper. “You had me terrified!”

He stays silent as my anger slowly fades back to numbing relief. I stash my knife back under my pillow and sit up, hugging my knees to my chest. “What do you want?” I ask, suddenly feeling as exasperated as my mom when she couldn’t get Jake to vacuum for the whole weekend.

My vision eventually adapts to the inkiness of the room so that I can see the minute shaking of Ríjez’s hands. He slowly comes forward and eases himself onto my bed. Now I’m feeling more awkward than anything; his posture--head hanging low, hands clenched tightly in his lap--tells me that this isn’t anything good. His next words confirm this: “I can’t do this, Vessa.”

I cock my head, confused at his forlorn voice. Can’t do what? I ask him this, and his answer tips my mind from its axis. “This.”  He gestures widely at the ceiling, the room. “I can’t stay here any longer. I want out.”

“Hey, it’s not like I invited you in.”

My light attempt at humor is painfully ineffective. Ríjez turns his eyes to me. I inhale sharply, sobering immediately. There’s so much pain and sorrow and utter emptiness in his gaze that it’s a wonder he isn’t crying or begging me to put him out of his misery. Something in my heart tweaks, and I inch forward slightly to set my hand on his shoulder.

It occurs to me that throughout this whole ordeal--the whole three years, two months, and eight days--he has always been there for me. To cry to, to complain to, to argue about how insanely unfair all of this was to me. But I’ve never returned the favor. I lost my mom and my brother and friends; this man lost his wife and two sons and probably a whole plethora of loved ones that I’m not even aware of. I receive comfort but never offer any in return.