A Daughter's Revenge

After the death of Helen's mother, she goes crazy with grief that she starts planing the death of the one who killed her mother. What would happen when she gets her hands in her mother's killer?

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A Daughter’s Revenge by C.M. Martinez

 

Mr. King was sitting in a dark-wood chair, his hands were bound together behind him as well as his feet, his eyes were cover by a bandana. His hair was sticking in all directions. His nose was bloody, and blood was dripping down landing on the shirt’s collar. There was sweat running down his temples. His silk button down shirt was missing a couple of buttons from the top. His black slacks were dusted with dirt. His shoes look the color of gray, not the shiny black as before.

He didn’t move, or say a word.

I set in a similar chair as his in front of him, watching his every breathe. I wanted to lashed out and just shoot him, but I also wanted to make him die slowly with so much pain he’ll remember till his next life.

I waited.

“Who are you?” said Mr. King in a deep voice. There was no fear in it, and it really pissed me off more. Wasn’t he scare?

“That’s not important right now,” I answer, I waited for him to make an arrogant laugh when he heard a female voice.

“You are a female. If I wasn’t pissed, I would be turn on.” There it was. His arrogant voice making me feel like a pitiful woman with a pitiful plan.

“I’m one piss-off female, Mr. King. You should be worry.” I said calmly.

I would not lose my cool. I would not lose my cool. I chanted to my self.

“Sure, I’m very worry,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his every word.

Fury made me hold my gun tighter, but I didn‘t do nothing.

“What do you want?” he ask after a couple of minutes.

“Your death, Mr. King,” I said without missing a beat.

I wanted his dead after a painful torture. He was going to pay for every humiliating thing he cause my mother. He was going to pay for every night I saw her weep, and wash her body for hours using almost a bar of soap.

I knew my mother was a prostitute, I never gave her a hard time about it. I still saw her with loving eyes, she still was my hero, and my adoring mother. Every night she would read me a story, and after school she would help me with my homework. She attended all my school plays, and was the first to volunteer for school’s field trips. She spoiled me to no end, saying I was her little princess. I never suffer of hunger, or looked at something with logging.

I always work extra hard in school, and everything else showing my mother I was thankful for all the sacrifices she made for me. Selling her body to feed her daughter, or going through humiliating scenes to give me stuff she couldn’t be able to if she didn’t do it. I wanted my mother to be proud. I couldn’t take her out that violent world, or ask her. I was afraid she would be ashamed of herself knowing her daughter knew.

I didn’t want my mother to feel that way. So, I promise my self every night after I prey to God, that I was going to take my mother out of that world. I was going to spoiled her, like she did with me. I was going to buy her a big house, I was going to give everything she gave me, and more.

I loved my mother too much, and she die before I could give her more love, and riches she well deserve.

There was so much pain in me, and so much anger for this f****r in front of me.

“I’m willing to pay any price if you let me go.” I didn’t want his dirty money. I had money of my own, and more then him.

“You might own the ghetto, Mr. King, but I own the whole f*****g world. I’m a million times more richer then you,” I said.

“Who are you!” This was how I wanted him, struggling in the chair, and fear lacing his voice.

“I’m the daughter of a prostitute you killed twenty years ago because she wouldn’t go back to the streets. That’s who I’m, and let me tell you, you f*****g b*****d, I’m pissed as hell!” I shouted the last words, and in seconds I was off my chair, and pressing my gun to his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he whisper.

“I don’t want apologies, I wanted you dead.” He struggles under the weapon, and try to unbound his wrist off the rope.

“Let me go!”

I drop my gun from his forehead, and went back to the chair. I rested the weapon in the table, and crossed my legs. “My mother’s name was Michaela Russo, she came from an humble Italian family. My mother felt in love with a handsome boy from her school, my father die before he knew she was pregnant. She gave birth to me at the age of sixteen, no one to help her with me, she left school and went to work in many jobs as a waitress. She didn’t make much, barely could afford rent, and food--”

“Every w***e’s story,” said Mr. King, breaking my voice of the story.

“My mother was not a w***e. Everything she did was out of love, she love me so much to ruin her body. Now shut the f**k up,” I said.

“Working two jobs, and barely making meats end, she decided she needed another job. That’s when she decided to go to you, to be her pimp. She knew that if she did it her self, she would probably end up dead in an alley, and me left motherless. After that my mother was at home every morning taking me to school, and being at home when I got back from school. I didn’t understood when I saw her wearing scraps of clothes, and heavy make-up at night when she though I was asleep. When before my mother could barely afford food, and clothes for me, after her new job we would go to the grocery store, and buy two carts filled of food. There would be ice cream of different flavors, chips, and cookies. We would eat meat every night, and deserve never missed our dinners. As I was growing up I understood things better, understood why my mother could afford more things, and was able to buy a big house, and not the usual nasty apartment that always had five locks. I had my own room, decorated with pinks, and a T.V. A T.V! When we didn’t even own one, we had T.v.’s in every room. She was able to buy me princess’ movies every time I wish for one, buy me a fancy car for my sixteen birthday. The Christmas’ mornings the Christmas tree was pack of gifts. . . .”

“She was able to give you all that crap thanks to me,” said Mr. King with venom in his voice.

Why was the b*****d talking when I was remembering my mother? His very present was tainting my mother’s memory.

“No, it wasn’t for you. My mother’s humiliating herself every night, enduring those smelling men was what gave me everything all those years. I will killed you for taking my mother away from me, I didn’t have her long enough to take those awful memories from her. To make her feel worthy of herself. She was a beautiful women, filled of love, and she never regretted everything she did for me,” I snap at him.

Back to the story, “The night of her death she confess everything to me. She was tormented her whole life from keeping that secrete from me,” I said.

I told my crying mother I loved her no matter what she did. That I knew everything, and still respected her. That what she did never would taint me from seeing her like a loving mother. She was my mother, the one who gave me birth, and made sure I feed and clothed. Why should I hate her for taking care of her daughter, like a mother should. Why should I judge her if I was the one she was making the sacrifice for. That was the last night I talked to my mother, the last time she smile at me, and weep with me. No one was with me in her dead bed, no one went to her funeral, and no one saw her burial. I bough her thousand of flowers, and sang her a lullaby, because for me she was going to sleep.

So young, she was very young, but her soul was old. She had seen too much of life, she had witness, and endure cruelty through out her short years.

I promise her, that I was going to make worth of everything she did for me. I would be something big, and someone she would be proud of calling daughter.

“She was a w***e, nothing more then a w***e!” shouted Mr. King.

“No, that’s where you wrong. She was a mother, like any mother would do for there children. You b*****d took advantage of her,” I said to the man cover by a bandana.

I got up, and walk towards Mr. King and took off his bandana. I put both my hands on both sides his chair. His brown eyes widen when he saw me close enough I could smell his breath. “You will pay handsomely for what you did to my mother, if you had just left her alone, and never bother her, none of this would had never happen.”

“Your dead if anything happens to me, or you’ll go to jail,” he reason with me.

“None of that would touch me, ever. Like I say I’m wealthy rich, no one would question my word. Plus who would think I was associated with you,” I said looking him dead in the eyes. My gaze never waver my prey.

“I have close friends that would report my missing.” Again, he try to plead.

I turn, and walk back to my chair. “Everyone has a price, and your dear friends were no different. With friends like that, who would want enemies.”

“B***h! Let me go! Now!” he shouted, and struggle making the chair bounce.

“Now, now, come on, where are your manners?” I said before I set down.

I smile at him.

“You sick, b***h,” he said, looking around the empty warehouse. I bough the warehouse a couple of years ago, made sure no one knew I owned it, and it wouldn’t be trace back to me.

I was dressed all in black; black jeans, and a turtle neck blouse. Leather gloves cover my hands, and pointy boots cover my feet. My hair was in a bum, spray keep it in place, I wasn’t taking the chance to leave hair stings behind. Diamond studs shine from my ears.

“Take a very long look at this sick b***h, because I’m the last thing you going to see, you worthless s**t,” I said while grabbing the gun. I wasn’t planning on using it. I had other methods I was going to use.

Besides my gun there was a leather bag, in that bag there was a set of very sharp knifes. I unbound the leather bag, and open the black clothed that wrapped the shiny silver knifes.

“What a-are you d-doing?”

“It’s that fear I hear, Mr. King?” I gaze at him, and smile. “I like it.”

“Please, forgive me? Have compassion on me,” he whisper.

I took long looks at the knifes, carefully making my choose. “Why should I, you didn’t have any with my mother.”

“I pay any price you want. Please let me go,” he pleaded.

“I don’t need money, remember I’m wealthy. All I want it’s your death, and I already claim it when you decided to killed my mother. You probably didn’t know she had a daughter, eh?”

“No, I didn’t,” he said.

I wasn’t surprise he didn’t know of me, of leaving a daughter motherless. When my mother die I was seventeen-years-old, I might had being old enough to understand my mother’s death, but damn it, I didn’t have to.

My mother had being over protective of me. She had no friends, and she had lost contact with her family. No one every visit us. The only person I know my mother talk, and keep contact with was my babysitter when I was a little girl. And Mrs. Holland was an elderly women that just set in front of the T.V while I sleep thru the night. My mother pay her very well just to watch T.V.

I settle for a sharp knife. Picking it up, I stared at the point end of it. Perfect!

I turn and saw Mr. King eye wide with terror. The arrogant look he had before had fled his face. I was please by it.

I strolled over him, my knife in my hand. I couldn’t help but smile a little. What I had plan and imagine in my head was happening now. There was no other person in this world I wanted dead so bad as him. He was the one that brought hatred in my heart, overtaking the joy, and calmness. He took the only person that I love, and that love me with out doubts of my persona. Every person was after my money or something they could gain out of me. I didn’t care of money if I didn’t have my mother with me to enjoy it with.

I didn’t know if my hatred was going to die with him.

I struck the knife in his stomach. His eyes widen even more that look almost to pop out his sockets. I went back to the table, and brought back two more pointy sharp knifes.

I stuck them to his knees. “Please . . .” Mr. King said barely getting the word out with the pain.

“What’s that? I can’t understand you,” I said.

I repeated the same thing, going back to the table, and coming. I came back with two more pointy sharp knifes. I stuck them to his shoulders. He whimper, and I saw tears rolling down his cheeks.

I turn, and went to sit at the chair. I started at the pimp everyone fear at the ghetto, the one who pimp up to fifty women every night. His silk shirt was soak in blood, as well as his slacks. When his clothes were so soak in blood, the blood started dripping down the floor. There was a circle forming out of blood. Blood was running down my chain, but I could careless. I could smell the rusty metallic smell of it.

I listen to his whimpers, and saw more tears rolling down. He look at the knifes, then at me with pleading eyes. Between whimpers, and tears, a scream would escape his mouth.

The circle got wider, and I was getting more, and more annoyed listen to his whining crap. I stood off the chair, he was in such fear state he try to backwards, shaking his head in a no gesture, and whimper louder.

I grab an even bigger knife and stuck it on his heart. I twisted it in his heart wishing I had it in my hand so I could squish the life out of him. I settle for the knife.

“Go to hell,” I whisper in his ear, and deepen the knife in his heart. He made an awful cry, and in second his body went limp.

I had killed a human being, but there was no regrets in my mind. If I had them, if would had being long time ago I had forgotten now.

I got away the body, and grab my gun. After I made sure I left nothing back that would compromise me being here. I went outside, and open the trunk of a car I had bough a year ago from a seller in a newspaper add. The car wasn’t under my name, no one knew I had it. I took out the gasoline

Author's Note

Anything that's in your mind about my story, let me know!

Reviews

[D.J. Lutz]

I liked it. A few grammar points to consider, but it could be actual voice of the character, so I hesitate to say it needs correcting. Nice development, I could feel the emotion of the woman coming through in your words. Nice job!