"The Devil's Revenge" by Rishav Sarmah

[ShortStoryContest]

The following story has been selected as a featured runner-up in our 2015 short story contest (Contest Theme - "The Self-Destructiveness of Vengeance and Hate")

"The Devil's Revenge" by Rishav Sarmah

It’s been a while since I’ve truly felt human. I guess that’s what hate does to you. It numbs you. Makes you feel empty. You become a cold, remorseless psychopath. When your whole life is clouded by vengeance, you start to envelop certain characteristics that are feared in our society. I guess that’s why I’m called Lucifer.

I was born on the 6th of June 1996. 6/06/96. If that wasn’t enough of a sign for my catholic parents, I was also born with a lack of pigment in my eyes, giving them a rich crimson hue. It was an unusual coincidence. My parents thought otherwise. In fear of me, they named me Lucifer and abandoned me, left me to grow up in an orphanage. The children in my orphanage were afraid of me. They knew I was different. They ignored me, shunned me. I was all alone. I used to wish that some of the children would make fun of me, because then at least I would have had some type of contact with my age group. I was home-schooled because no other school would accept me. The only person who ever treated me like a human was Ms Newman, the woman in charge of the orphanage. I still remember the conversations I had with her. She always said that I was incredibly mature for my age. We had lengthy conversations during the last few years at my orphanage, where we discussed philosophy, human nature, and most of all, Catholicism. Ms Newman had a degree in Religious studies, so she could offer me insight on anything I needed. However, she was not always eager to share. Ms Newman often told me that my obsessions with Christianity and human nature were not healthy. She often told me to try to focus my mind on something else. But how could I? My entire life was moulded by my hatred of my christian parents. If my parents weren’t religious, they may have taken me into their lives, raised me like a son. And for that I hated them. From my seventh birthday, all my wishes were to kill them. But I never expressed these desires to Ms Newman. Although I love her more than anyone else, I couldn’t. This was my hatred, not hers. However, I’ve always thought she knew. During my last year at the orphanage, I realised, that although Ms Newman loved me, she too was scared of me. But it was different. Ms Newman wasn’t scared of me because I could’ve been Satan’s spawn. She was afraid because of my personality, my dark, evil persona. I tried last year. I tried to make her love me more. But when I hugged her for the last time on my last day, I knew that I had lost the only mother figure I ever had. But by then, I was used to pain. I was numb. And I was ready. I was now an adult, and I was ready to carry out my only wish.

To kill my parents.

Being alone was a new experience to me. For once I felt truly in sync with my emotions and actions. For once, I actually had complete control over my choices. I faked an enrolment into a university as an alibi, but my true intentions were far from the dullness of education. I wanted to track my parents down.

If I can recall, there was a storm the night I returned to the orphanage. My thin black hair was windblown, and moisture from the downpour of rain was dampening my entire body. My face was covered by a ski mask, with sunglasses over my blood-red eyes. A massive black overcoat hung on my skinny figure like a child wearing his father’s clothes. Concealed inside my coat was a butcher’s knife. I wasn’t intending to use it, but I had to do what I had to do. As I entered the orphanage, I was greeted with the familiar smells of lavender and dust and the sounds of children snoring upstairs. I turned to the left and set down the long hall. A sliver of light escaped from a door that was ajar. It cut through the darkness, penetrating it, but there was not enough light to brighten the darkness. As I reached the door I peered through, seeing a young man in his 20’s hunched over a desk with files in hand. It was Jay, Ms Newman’s assistant. This was my target. I crept into the room, slowly edging the knife out of my coat. I gripped the handle with my fingers, but they were too slippery, and before I could do anything the knife dropped to the floor with a clang. Jay whipped around and I instinctively punched him. My fist cracked against his nose and blood spurted. For a moment a rush went through me. Was this joy I was feeling? Was I happy about assaulting an innocent man? I didn’t have enough time to contemplate. Jay had fallen into the cluttered desk with a crash. I knew immediately that Ms Newman would have heard the noise and was probably on her way down now. I had to act fast. I quickly gathered all the files I could while Jay was incapacitated. As I sprinted out of the room I saw Ms Newman coming down the stairs, blocking the only route out of the orphanage. And then she turned. As she saw my figure in the dark she froze, and whispered in an uneasy voice “Who are you?”

I did the only thing I could. I approached her and began speaking.

“Deborah Newman I know who you are and you know who I am,” I growled. My voice came out as a low, guttural sound, the noise echoing throughout the darkness, the malice hanging in the air. The call of the devil.

“Wha-what do you mean?” Ms Newman stammered.

“It doesn’t matter what I meant, I want you to move,” I snarled.

Ms Newman wavered.

“NOW!”

Deborah Newman sprinted back up the stairs screaming in horror. I swiftly exited the orphanage. But as I did, I couldn’t help but look back. I had a horrifying feeling that I was going to see Ms Newman soon.

And I walked off in the rain, the thought lingering in my caged mind.

A cage of revenge.

I sat in the small room, the files spread out on the cold hard ground. I had spent an hour looking for the right file, and now I had it grasped tightly in my long, white, spindly fingers. I grinned as I stared at it, my canines shining in the moonlight. I opened the file to find two sheets of paper. The first read,

Name: Lucifer Williams

Parents: Patricia and John Williams

Note of abandonment: “This is Lucifer. We are unable to take care of him due to reasons that are obvious. Look at him. He is the devil. Do what you like with him. We want nothing to do with him.”

Date of abandonment: 8th June 1996

I hadn’t realised I sunken my claw-like hands into the sheet of paper until it tore in two. I was shaking, heat boiling up in me like a monster clawing it’s way to the surface. So it was true. They abandoned me because I looked like the devil. They abandoned a new-born child because of coincidence. Or was it? Was I truly becoming the devil? Had hate turned me into a demon? Was I truly the devil? At the time, the only thing I decided on was to find my parents and kill them, in the attempt that it would sate my hunger for revenge. I subconsciously picked up the other sheet of paper and was surprised to find it was a crayon drawing of myself and Ms Newman that I drew when I was younger. Ms Newman had kept it. Suddenly, I realised what I had truly drawn. Ms Newman was drawn like a blue, angelic stick figure. I was drawn in red, my hair shaped peculiarly like horns. We were holding hands, red and blue, Satan and God, Lucifer Williams and Deborah Newman.

“Revenge is an art,” I muttered.

As I walked across the room to get out, I picked up my coat. It was heavier than usual, and I remembered the pistol in the pocket. A fleeting memory came to mind of me smashing the police officer’s head in with a brick before stealing the gun.

For the second time that day, I grinned.

I had thought about planning my next move, and for some reason, I was attracted once again to weaponry. I was filled with greed. I knew what I wanted to do. And I knew where I wanted to go.

A bell clinked as I stepped into the firearms store. The pistol was in my left hand as I walked forwards to the counter.

“Hello sir, what can I help you with?” The pudgy old storeowner asked. I immediately pulled out the gun and pointed it at his forehead. For a full nanosecond I contemplated letting him live. But my instincts took over and I shot. The storeowner slammed into the wall behind him and slid down it, leaving a neat trail of blood behind him. The man probably had a wife, a family. But if I couldn’t have a family, why do others deserve theirs? I lived with hate for 18 years. They can live with sadness.

“All’s fair in love and war,” I said.

“Wait, is that the right quote? Ah well, sounded cool,” I laughed, my face contorting into an ugly smile as I grabbed my first gun.

I heard the sirens bleeping as I grabbed the last of the ammo out of the cupboard. Peering out, I saw the familiar red white and blue.

“Ugh, there are only two pigs?” I muttered to myself, then caught myself. I had never spoken to myself in my life. That was unusual. I shook the thought off and grabbed a massive gun that I did not know the name to. I casually put the ammo into the gun as I walked out of the store as casually as I could. I could faintly hear the police to put my gun down and come out with my hands up, but I didn’t heed their instructions. At the moment I was fixated on the massive oil tank behind the police car. I aimed, and prayed to God-no, Satan-that I hit the target. I clicked the safety off the gun, and subconsciously muttered, “Bow down to me, r let the flames of hell consume you.”

I heard the bang, felt the recoil, and saw the oil tank explode in a cloud of fire. It was beautiful, watching, in what seemed like slow-motion, the orange and yellow spreading it’s burning tendrils in every direction, sucking up any and every sign of life. I laughed as the flames lapped at the screaming police officers experimentally, then the fire lashed out, engulfing the pigs, trapping them, singeing them, smothering them, slowly but surely burning their flesh. I could smell it. It smelled…

It smelled nice.

I set off down a side road to distance myself from the carnage, much to my reluctance. Suddenly I felt my boot crack down on something hard. I looked down to see a three pronged pitchfork. I grinned evilly. What a coincidence. Unable to suppress my glee, I turned and continued down the road.

The knife hit the wooden wall with a sharp thud. I pulled it out and paced the room again, thinking. I had almost everything now. Almost to the point of excess. Excess. I let myself smile ruefully. The three sins of excess, Lust, Gluttony, Greed. I had given in to all of them. But who was to say that was a bad thing? Who labelled these three acts as sins? A sin is truly a matter of perspective. Some say homosexuality is a sin, some don’t. Not that I cared though. I didn’t care about people anyway. I hate people. I want to see them all burn in hell, to see how they cry out in agony, for abandoning me, for alienating me, for fearing me, they deserve it. All of them.

I realised my fists were clenched so hard that my nails had cut my hands, and they were now bleeding profusely. I calmed slowly, my breaths becoming deeper slowly, my muscles relaxing. I had lost control thinking about the monster that was humankind. I hated them.

Every single one of them.

Once I was calm, I began planning. All I knew so far were their names. So what could I do with their names? The address book. I searched through the dusty drawers in my small apartment and finding the massive book, threw it onto the cluttered table. Hastily I got a glass of water from the kitchen and took a gulp, spitting it out in disgust when I realised it was vodka. Screw it, I thought, and sculled the whole thing. It burned in my throat, like liquid fire, but it felt good. Not much felt good to me anymore. I was mostly just numb. I threw the empty glass into the sink and it shattered. Not that I cared. I returned to the address book, flipping to the “W” section. There it was, on the second page I searched. Williams, John and Patricia. My breath came out in ragged gasps. My yellow stained teeth grinned. The grey light coming from the blinds in my apartment seemed to cast a strange glow on the book. I couldn’t help it. I realised that soon, my wrath would be quenched. I knew that this was it. Hate had changed me, I knew that. But I also knew that I was so close to achieving my lifelong dream of killing Patricia and John Williams. I subconsciously stroked the shaft of my pitchfork.

The bush I hid in had cut me enough that droplets of blood slid down my body. I couldn’t feel the pain, or the way the crimson liquid slithered down my skin, warming it. Through a tiny opening in the bush I could see the old fashioned house. It was a sole light in the darkness of the night. Inside, I could see and old couple around a fireplace, a mug in each of their hands. They looked like they were in peace. But not for long. I could have killed them then and there. But I hadn’t thought ahead and brought a weapon. However, from watching their every move the past week, I had learnt a lot about them, including where they went every Sunday. Church. And to me, that was the perfect place for their death.

I remember that fateful day like it was yesterday. It was a warm day, but still I shrugged on my black coat. I gently slid on my sunglasses, and wrapped a bandana around my hair, which had grown long and shaggy. My bony hands were covered with gloves. Inside my bag were two weapons. An old, rusty revolver, and my pitchfork, which I had adjusted to dagger size. Walking over to my mirror, I looked at myself. I was no longer the child that had left the orphanage. Hate had indeed changed me, to the point where I could barely recognise myself as me, or even a human. All I could see was Lucifer.

The white church towered over me, in all its glory. The shadow of its massive tower fell on me, the tower itself glaring at me. The clear marble reflected everything around it. Inside the church, I knew only two people remained, praying. The Sunday mass was over, but Patricia and John William’s weren’t. How fortunate for me. I reached for the door, but the metal doorknob burned me, as it was exposed to the sun all day. I hissed and grabbed it, ignoring the pain and pushing the doors wide open. The sunlight seeping through the huge windows sizzled on my skin as I strode through the long hallway towards my parents. Hah. Lucifer walking through a church. Who would’ve thought?

“John and Patricia Williams,” I said, my voice filled with revenge as I stopped a couple of meters before them. They turned, and I noticed that a long time ago, I would have had a striking resemblance. I had my father’s ears, but my earlobes were attached. I had my mother’s thin, pointed face. Her blonde shoulder length hair was pulled back in a bun, showing her thin eyebrows. My eyebrows. My father’s jet black hair was balding. I would have looked so much like them. That is, if vengeance didn’t turn me into a monster.

“Yes? Who are you?” Patricia Williams asked, her voice soft and silky.

“What, you don’t recognise me?” I ripped off my glasses and threw them aside. I revelled in watching their confusion turn to sudden fright and shock. The scream that erupted out of my mother’s throat made me grin. The gasp from my father made the monster in me purr.

“H-how? How are you here?” John Williams stuttered.

“What, you think I wouldn’t find you? You two made a huge mistake abandoning. You asked for a death wish, 18 years ago. You messed up. You gave me a parting gift; vengeance. And I’ve used that gift so much during my 18 years of life. You claim to be children of God. You think God wanted this? If he even existed, do you think he’d want someone to be alienated from society, and feared, just because his parents were too scared to raise him, because he had red eyes? Well look now. What goes around comes around. I bet you thought you’d never see these eyes again. Well, unlucky, my ‘parents’.” I pulled the pitchfork out of my coat and brandished it in front of the cowering couples. Patricia had begun crying and praying simultaneously, but John, strangely, maintained a relatively calm and stoic impression.

“I want you to know, Lucifer, what we did, I am terribly sorry. I’m so sorry, my son,” He said, his eyes pleading with me. I was shocked for a second. Could he have been asking for redemption? But then hate permeated into my mind, filtering my thoughts, and I heard myself say in an unearthly voice, “Too late.”

Everything else immediately after the murder of my parents is hazy to me. I remember walking out of the church and seeing the police. I had tried to defend myself, but to no avail. I remember them telling me how they got me. During the raid of the guns store, they had gained some kind of information on me through footprints. They had raided my apartment that Sunday, and found my plans. But by then they were too late. By the time they arrived, the job was done. The police couldn’t get any information out of me. Apparently during the entire interrogation, all I would do was mutter “I did it.” So they admitted me in this mental hospital, where I was to stay for the rest of my life. And here I am, writing this from behind a metal door. I’m not in prison. But hell, it sure feels like it. The meals here are disgusting. The pills they force me to have don’t help. After all, no type of medicine can eradicate the disease that is hate. I never spoke to any of the nurses, but continued my habit of saying “I did it.” That is, until she visited.

Ms Newman looked the same as always. Her kind blue eyes. Her brow, furrowed in sadness as she looked at my broken being. Her ginger hair, in a ponytail. She had wrinkles now. I had never seen her with wrinkles.

“Lucifer,” She said, looking sadly at me.

“I did it, Ms Newman!” I smiled, like I was a child again.

“I guess you did, Luce.”

“Why are you sad?”

Miss Newman looked deep into my red eyes and said, “Tell me Lucifer, do you feel happy? Happy because you murdered your parents? I know it was you that day, Luce. The day you came back to the orphanage, your voice was that of a hate fuelled demon. But I raised you like a mother. And a mother always recognises their son. You thought no one loved you. You were too blinded by anger to see the one person that loved you. You thought revenge on the William’s would bring you peace, but it hasn’t. All that it’s done is destroy you. You are no longer human. You’ve become what your parents thought you were. A devil. Goodbye, Lucifer.”

A single tear ran down her cheek as she raced out of the cell, and the guards shut the door tight. I started screaming her name like I never had before. Tears flowed freely as I screamed until my voice was hoarse, banging the metal doors until I drew blood, and vomited until I had nothing left, and then retched emptily. I was once again abandoned by my only loved one. But this time, it was because of me.

“So this is how it ends,” I whispered, “The devil’s reign is over.” I thought I’d feel happy to kill Patricia and John Williams.

So why did I feel the opposite?

[Melanie_Page]

This is nicely harrowing. It evolves very naturally and totally captures the theme. Well done!

[Cyfir]

This, this is a great story, I really like how you write the character as so, the reader is sympathetic, and some part of me believed that he was justified for killing his parents. Then I realize what I just thought and feel sufficiently horrified of myself. Then at the end, I feel so sorry for him, it wasn't his fault that his parents abandoned him, and he felt the need for killing his parents for closure.
In short, well done.