Sweet Revenge thriller

Chapter Nine

IT WAS WHEN I HAD A SESSION with Patrick a few days later that I started to brag about my new hobby and strength and he had said, 'You should do something with all that might of yours,' when the idea sprung into my head. I know he meant go into competitions and kick ass, but I got to thinking. When I was at the gym whether it was training or kickboxing, a power of angry aggressiveness consumed me and it started to move into one of my temp administration jobs. When the photocopier broke down once too many times I'd slammed the lid down with such ferocity the glass broke and the new emotion I felt after beating up Mr. Wordy Cow, turned up again... 'Serves you fucking right.' OK, so I was aiming my revenge at an object, but, it felt real good.

I had also given a lot of thought about Mr. Wordy Cow's injuries and although it appalled me that I had actually broken her shoulder, I couldn't stop thinking about the actual altercation. Not the first jab I threw, cos quite frankly that did nothing. But the second jab to her forehead and the kick to her rib cage. I felt the anger surge within me, taking over, hurt her, hurt her. She was a nasty woman and I laid her to the floorboards. In my tiny brain, I made her pay for what she was doing to my friend. And like the photocopier, exacting revenge felt real good!

I think it was at that moment, feeling real satisfied, that I decided I could put my aggression to good use.

I could find out who killed my family. Prove they were innocent of any wrong doing.

If I found them, then what?

I'd take them on!

I glance down my body and see my powerful biceps and triceps bulging underneath my cotton shirt and I reckon I will be ready if I have to belt the living crap out of some bastard.

Yeah, I know on one level I'm not thinking straight and some could call it not exactly sane.

But The Next Part Of My Plan Is Even More Insane.

I NEED HELP.

Someone I can trust with my life!

I need to know what I don't know. Or as Patrick says, 'what I don't want to remember.' I have to know everything that happened that fateful afternoon. Only then will I know what or who I am dealing with. Who could help me? No one springs to mind. It cannot be Patrick, because for one reason or another, I have not told him the fragmented memories which have resurfaced over the years since I was about six years old, sending me down into depths of despair. These fragments are the reason I went to him in the first place. I could have told him many times. I could have told him in confidence and together we could have worked through it.

Or I could have broached the subject with my parents. Until I was a teenager, I didn't understand that something sinister could have happened when I was six years old, even though I had the nightmares which should have indicated there was something seriously wrong. In the morning I'd put them out of my mind and as I got older I put it down to me being a kid with a vivid imagination. But, by the time I was thirteen when the gory images flashed into my head again, I knew it had nothing to do with a young'uns imagination. From then on, I couldn't see that the flashes of images could be anything other than fragments of my past and whether I understood them or not, the fleeting images were fucking scary! I can date to the second when a switch in my head was turned on, exposing me to the possibility that something was terribly wrong. My parents knew immediately something was screwing with me. It was hard to hide. Going from a daughter who worked hard at school, pretty much did as she was told at home; to a moody, foul mouthed teenager who made it her priority to mix with the gang of kids whose main ambition in life was to avoid prison like their parents or borstal like their older siblings while pursuing their own criminal activities.