Vengeance is Patient

            Typically, the Unblessed locked their doors and shuttered their windows tight at night. It was a sign symbolizing that the Blessed were unwelcome. Rude. Occasionally a few left three candles burning in an open window and the door would remain unlocked. A sign symbolizing welcome. The taverns, with its bright lights and the stench of liquor and smoke and Blessed and Unblessed alike crowded together, stood like a beacon in the night, beckoning for a feast. Shed blood, not bodies. Another rule in the long list of social requirements. Too many to remember and harshly punished when broken.
            He clutched a red pendant in his hand. The gold chain, priceless to countless Unblessed, dangled across his knuckles and down his hand. Engraved on the front, a green dragon held an egg in a loving embrace. He slipped the chain over his head and carefully tucked the pendant into his shirt; the coarse material caught at where the chain and stone met and pulled a number of threads loose. He cursed under his breath. He paid good money to have such a nice shirt for the occasion. He would need to have a talk with the merchant over the weakness.
            He scanned the house. The shutters were open and candles burned inside, but three did not stand in the window. The door was locked. A tease. On the second floor, a window was open. Most likely to let in the cooler night air. There was nothing decent to smell in the town, least of all at night. Gripping his fingers into the cracks between stones, he climbed and pulled himself into the window.
            The room was empty. A carved wardrobe stood against the left wall with a small vanity next to it. A three-legged stool was tucked neatly underneath the table. Beauty supplies and other womanly items scattered the top. Various trinkets sat on shelves or hung from the wall—jeweled and golden designs, animal pelts, and carvings of wood, stone, and bone. A large bed rested against the right wall. Blankets of soft fabrics were tucked beneath feathered pillows. A wooden chest at the foot of the bed stored winter blankets, he assumed.
            Dim light peeked from beneath the door. The faint echo of words floated through. A mother sending her children to bed. A child’s whine. A young boy attempting to persuade. A call for Father. He smiled. Unblessed children were all the same. Two sets of footsteps clambered up the stairs, one soft and lightless and the other heavier. A door creaked open and close and the two girls murmured their goodnights to each other. The younger one, her voice higher and shriller, said goodnight to her absent father as well. The man touched the lump under his shirt for a moment before opening the door.
            He made his way down the hall silently, careful to put very little weight on the creaky wood. He gripped the knob and yanked the door open, the hinge groaning in protest. A single bed sat directly across from the door. The two girls, a year or two separating their ages, squealed and clung to each other. The man’s shadowy form and glowing eyes were all they could see in the dark room. He walked to the foot of the bed.
            The little girl squinted at him. “Pa?” She asked, her voice hopeful.
            He jumped onto the bed, squatted, and gripped each by the throat. And then he leaned over and placed his teeth just beneath the little one’s eye and bit down, puncturing through the bone with ease.
            He stepped away from the girls. His lips and chin, as well as his shirt were covered in blood. The girls lay silently on the bed in blood soaked nightclothes. The younger one’s cheek was ripped away, revealing her mouth and her eye dangled from its socket. The older one’s jaw lay haphazardly against her chest. He left the room and shut the door with no more care than he had when he opened it.
            Each stair creaked as he went downstairs. A male voice told the girls to go back to bed. He smiled again and ran his tongue across his teeth. He continued down the stairs, unfazed by the boy’s threats to burn their toys. He heard the boy stand up and walk towards the stairs. They met at the base. The boy’s eyes widen at the sight of him, his mouth partially agape. Then his gaze flickered down the blood and his expression hardened.
            “Ma!” the boy yelled as he leapt at him. He grabbed the boy by the wrist and pushed him to his knees, snapping the bone. Except for his blue eyes, he was a splitting image of his father. Sandy blonde hair scraggly past the ears. Sharp nose. Sharp chin. Ears slightly pointed at the tip. He stared into his eyes filled with determination. He wondered if he was as perverse as his father. If he would desire a child. If he would know the child from infancy and fuck her when her body could hold him. If he would call that mutual love.
            “Let him go,” her voice was smooth and it sent chills down his spine. He looked up at her. Her skin resembled her mother’s, so dark and silky. A modest cut dress hid the delicacies it hinted at. And her eyes were a deep shade of green matching the dragon on the pendant.
            He put pressure on the boy’s wrist. “And why is that?” The boy squirmed and gasped in pain, but he didn’t let him go.
            She clenched her hands, her glare never wavering.
            “Believe me, my dear,” he squeezed the boy’s hand and listened to the bones break. The boy cried out. “I will let him go. I just need to make sure he knows his place.” He looked back down at the boy.
            “Now.”
            He yanked the arm up then down, the elbow snapping in the process. The boy screamed and tears streamed from his eyes. She ran at him, a knife in her hands that he missed in his assessment. He let the boy go, kicked him away, and dodged her attack with ease. She stumbled when her target moved, attempting to reposition herself. He ducked and swung his arm around her waist and pulled her towards him.
            “Now, now, now. What does an Unblessed have on a Blessed?” She struggled in his iron grip. “You could have had this, you know? You could have been Blessed. You should have been Blessed. Oh, but you said no. You didn’t want to be Blessed. You’d rather waste away. You’re a fool.”
            She spat on his face.
            He backhanded her to the floor and kicked her in the stomach. The boy wrapped an arm around his leg. Still fighting. Not giving up. He did have what it took to be a Blessed. He flung the boy against the wall. A crudely framed portrait of six fell. The boy stood up, shaking and cradling his broken arm. His nose crooked from the kick and blood trickled down his jaw. He grabbed the boy by the chin; fresh bristles poked his hand. She reached for her son, but he kicked her arm away.
            “You see, my dear, he needs to learn his place. Look how he fights on even though he has been defeated. It’s more pitiful than admirable.” He held the boy to his chest, one arm wrapped around his stomach and the other hand gripping his cheek and neck. “And so do you.” He snapped the boy’s neck to the side and let the body slide to the floor.
            She screamed. He pulled her by her dress into the other room. The fire flickered and crackled ominously. He set her near the fire, close enough to highlight her every feature, but far enough away to keep her from getting any ideas of retaliation. A quick forceful tug ripped the dress. She clawed at him—the obsolete concepts of self-defense amongst Unblessed—and dug deep scratches when her nails connected with his skin. He shoved her palm into the floor and forced his thumb through the skin. She screamed again and he slammed his elbow into her face, breaking her nose, smearing blood, and ruining her beauty.
            “Fuck you,” she coughed through blood.
            “Don’t get ahead of ourselves, my dear.” He peeled off the dress and left long bloody scratches down her chest as he fondled her breasts. His left hand trailed down her stomach and to her crotch, leaving more red lines. She snarled. He sunk one, then two fingers in her. She didn’t whimper, didn’t cry out. Her eyes stared at him with anger ablaze. He laughed. She swung her unbroken hand and caught his eye.
            He howled in pain.
            And now she was the one who laughed. She mocked him. He held her life in his hands and she had the audacity to taunt him. “Do what you will, but Miak will be home soon,” she smiled at him, a flash of sadistic humor in her eyes.
            He clasped his hand around her throat and squeezed. Blood from his wounded eye dripped onto her face. “Oh, but my dear, Miak isn’t coming home. I already took care of that problem.” He pulled the pendant out from his shirt and held it above her face. It swayed slowly back and forth. “You see, my dear, your precious perversion of a husband is laying in shit, where he belongs. Where he has always belonged.”
            “My ma won’t stand for this,” her heartbeat raced and her breathing increased.
            “There aren’t many other ways to get your ma’s attention,” he grinned. “At least, none so satisfying.” He dropped the pendant and bit into her breast. Her back arched as she gasped in pain. He kept biting until his teeth touched. He pulled back and spat the flesh onto the floor. Using his knees to part her legs further, he yanked down his trousers. With a hard thrust he hoped was painful he entered her.
            Blood from his eye mixed with the blood on her face into a red mess. Her shoulders pounded into the wood with every thrust. The fire dimmed. And when he came he bit into her neck. Pulling out, his breath was ragged. He laughed, spitting saliva onto her face. “Oh, Trinva, my dear, I may have imagined how you would feel, but I was never expecting it be like your mother.” He breathed deep, his mind clouded with the scent of her and memories of her mother. “But I guess I should have known. You’re so much like her. In appearance. In personality and attitude. You’re just not as strong as her and you never will be. You’re an Unblessed. You’ll never have her strength. You won’t. And even if you were Blessed you’d still be weak. Weaker than her. She is so strong, so beautiful. She’s perfect in nearly every way. She makes mistakes. You’ve paid for them.” He laughed again. “But now, on to the next.” He cupped his wounded eye, collecting a puddle of blood in his hand. “Have a drink.”
            She shook her head, trying to keep his hand away, but he held her still and forced the blood through her lips. He smothered her nose and mouth, forcing her to swallow. He rubbed his tongue across his teeth and drank from her chest wound. He stood, stirred the logs to brighten the flame and watched, smiling, as her body shook and trembled.
            The ceiling was fairly low in the room and the beams were thick. He looped a rope around one of the beams. A short amount hung down to form a noose. He picked her up, her eye no longer green, but as yellow as the morning sun. She was a splitting image of her mother. Holding one hand to the ceiling, he shoved a thick nail through, before doing the same to the other hand. The noose was slipped over her neck.
            “Don’t worry, it’s nearly morning. You won’t choke to death.” He nailed the shutters open. One can never be too cautious. The pendant was embedded in her missing breast, the green dragon facing outwards. He rubbed a tattoo on his arm of an identical green dragon, this one without an egg. He glanced back at the window. The sun would rise soon.
            A box sat near the fireplace. A place for storing firewood. He opened the lid. A boy about the age of eight stared up at him, his hands shaking and his eyes dull with fear.
            “Good morning." He lifted the boy out of the box. "Why don’t you run and get your eldma. We wouldn’t want her to miss tonight’s events.” The boy glanced at his mother. He carried him to the door, opened it and set him down outside. “You can walk, you don’t have to run. Your ma will be dead before help could come for her anyway.” He smiled. With a bloody hand, he patted the boy on the shoulder. “And you probably don’t want to end up dead like your family, do you?”
            He shut and locked the door and headed for the bedroom upstairs. In a drawer of the vanity was a soft cloth. Women. He shuttered the window, nailed it tight, and sat on the bed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an eye, caught between green and yellow; it was a lovely souvenir. He kissed the eye, wrapped it in the cloth, and placed it back in his pocket. He lay back against the bed, the mattress as comfortable as he expected. When the sun rose enough to shine through the open window downstairs, he listened to her screams, beautiful they were, until there was no more life in her.
            Now all he had to do was wait.