Guilliotine The Second: Sweet Revenge

Revenge is certainly a dish that's best served cold.          

After my malicious murder, I decided that this act the man commited would not go unpunished. Because, after I was murdered and resurrected, I swore that I would never do two things: Forgive or Forget. Never.          

And so it was on the same night, exactly one year hence, that I got my revenge.          

The man was outside of his apartment building, holding the key. I stalked in my ghostly form behind him, and let the door creak as I silently pushed it shut. He turned around slowly, and shrugged. He sat on his couch, his satchel in his lap, stroking the blade that had claimed my life. When I saw the knife, I decided that I was not going to kill this guy quickly. No, I was going to make him suffer the way I did. Only this time, he didn't have the fountain to save him.          

I went up the steps, and clunked down as noisily as I could, and the whole house paused when he caught his breath. He walked up the steps, slowly, cautiously, his beedy and mousy eyes narrowed. He had in his hands that knife. That wretched knife. I shuddered.          

I was so angry, my body was stuck in the same positon, right down to the fingernail, from when I died. Same dirt-caked fingernails, wild, tangled, dirty grassy hair, same bloodied mouth, and bloodied everything else. I pushed him down the steps with all the force I could muster. He fell back with a loud scream, and tumbled until he hit the wall at the foot of the steps.          

He threw the knife. I caught it, and threw it back at him.          

It landed on the collar of his shirt, so he was pinned there, too shocked to think to use his arms. I knew he couldn't see me, but I flipped him off anyway. I trudged right up to him and kicked him in the jaw. He let out a muddled yelp as his tongue was mashed between his teeth so hard, it could've fallen off. As a matter of fact, I was going to my sure it was.          

I punched him in the face with all my might, which would've hurt if I weren't already dead. He was out cold. I tied his hands and legs, and didn't touch him until he woke up. I wanted him to experience every second of it. Just my luck, then, because he woke up in that instant, head down, eyes closed, so that the attacker wouldn't notice his consciousness. What was this guy? Superhuman?          

Maybe he could hear me. "Well well well..." I said, waiting  for his response. His eyes shot up, and he looked around, panicked. Well, that settled that; he could hear me.          

So I went on with terrorizing him. "You're remember me? Remember my voice? Huh? You don't, do you? I'm the one you killed for no reason. Huh? Well, you know what they say. What goes around, comes around!" I kicked him in the gut while I said this. Over, and over, and over.          

I was tired of taking it easy on this guy. Because of him, I can't ever see my friends, or my family...or anybody. Well, I can see them, but they can't see me. I grabbed a lamp from the stool over by a couch and smashed it over his head. I kicked his groin countless times, while he sat there, writhing and wailing in agony. I untied his leg bonds. He could kick all he wanted. It wouldn't effect me in the slightest. I instead wrapped the rope around his throat, and tied it as tight as I could. He sat there, flailing wide-eyed at me, the space that seemed to repel other objects. The spot where a girl would be.          

I was about to finish him off big-time. I got some gasoline, and poured it all over the house, but half of it in his lap and another large fraction in his mouth. Then I set the house ablaze.          

I left without much haste, knocking things over as I went. Like mine, nobody would find the culprit in his murder. I was a shadow. I din't leave fingerprints. He'd just rot. And he deserved more than what I gave him.          

Like I said, revenge is sweet.