Revenge

This story contains sensitive content around death, violence and mental health.

REVENGE

The apartment was eerily quiet. Strips of moonlight streamed through the window, casting

shapes upon the wall.

Tom’s eyes slowly opened. Sleep had not come easily, and exhaustion was written

across his face. He pushed himself up from the couch, balancing on unsteady legs until his

muscles began to wake. He switched on the light and squinted at the clock resting on the

mantel until his eyes adjusted.

10.30 p.m.

Brushing a strand of sandy-colored hair from his forehead, he felt his stomach clench.

His gaze drifted to the old red corded phone and the bottle of pills on the coffee table. The

calls had gone on for two days and nights. The voice was always the same—deep, cold, and

threatening.

For twelve months, these walls had been his refuge. The apartment had been arranged

by his doctor and Inspector Jennings after his release from prison. It had been safe.

Now it wasn’t.

The calls had started early in the morning and had not stopped since.

Tom moved to the window and glanced down at the dark park three floors below. The

trees stood like shadowy figures waiting, silent and uninviting, mirroring the torment buried

deep inside him. A chill crept over his skin.

If only he could turn back time.

He hadn’t meant it.

They called him a killer. The judge had said manslaughter, but the looks in the

courtroom told a different story. He still remembered the shouting as he was led away.

The sudden ringing of the phone snapped him from his thoughts. He hesitated, then

picked up the receiver, holding it tightly to his ear.

“Have you checked the time, Mr. Cadshaw?”

Tom’s breath caught. It was already eleven.

“Why are you doing this?” His voice trembled. “Who the hell are you?”

“You should know, Tom.”

A click.

Tom stood frozen, the silence pressing in around him. Frustration and anger began to

build, threatening to overwhelm him. He sank back onto the couch, flashes of sirens and

police lights flooding his mind. Night after night, the same nightmare. The same pounding

heart, the same cold sweat.

He was twenty-five. He should have had a life ahead of him. But one reckless

decision had changed everything. And now someone wanted him to suffer for it.

In the kitchen, he made himself a coffee, hoping it might steady his nerves. The warm

aroma did nothing to calm him. Why now?

At first, he thought it might be someone from prison. They had given him hell in

there. But they wouldn’t have his number.

The phone rang again.

Tom stiffened. His muscles tightened as the sound echoed through the apartment. He

couldn’t ignore it. He grabbed the receiver.

“Mr. Cadshaw, time is getting close. I’ll see you at midnight. You will pay for what

you did.”

The line went dead.

A cold shiver ran down his spine. He slammed the receiver down and snatched up the

bottle of pills, hurrying into the kitchen. He pulled a can of beer from the fridge, his hands

trembling as he opened it. Foam spilled over his fingers as he swallowed two pills with the

bitter liquid.

Back in the living room, his panic only worsened.

He needed help.

He dialed Inspector Jennings. His heart sank when the call went to voicemail. In a

shaky voice, he left a message.

Waiting felt unbearable.

He looked at the clock.

11.45 p.m.

No. He couldn’t stay here. He had to get to Jennings.

His eyes fixed on the apartment door as his trembling hand reached for the knob.

Slowly, he opened it and peered down the corridor. The stairwell was a distance away.

Could he make it?

His heart pounded as he stepped out. His legs felt like they were filled with cement.

The walls began to sway. Nausea rose in his throat. His vision blurred, and sweat stung his

eyes. His lungs burned for air.

“No… I can’t…”

He turned, struggling back toward the apartment. Every step felt impossible. The door

seemed miles away. With a final burst of effort, he lunged forward, grabbed the knob, and

pulled it open.

He stumbled inside and slammed the door shut, collapsing against it as he fought for

breath. Minutes passed before he managed to move. His gaze fell on the pills.

“Why?” he shouted into the silence. “Why couldn’t I do it?”

He grabbed the bottle and hurled it against the wall. Glass shattered, pills scattering

across the floor. A loud buzzing filled his ears. The room spun violently.

Then everything went black.

***

When he opened his eyes, he was lying on the floor. He wasn’t alone.

A tall man stood over him.

Fear gripped Tom as recognition dawned. “You’re the one who’s been calling me,” he

whispered.

The man’s voice trembled with rage. “I told you I’d see you tonight, Tom. And I’m

going to take your life… like you took my family’s.”

Terror surged through Tom as he struggled to his feet. The memory came rushing

back.

The speeding car. Too much alcohol. Headlights. A sudden shape in the road.

The swerve.

The impact.

Two bodies beneath white sheets. A small teddy bear lying nearby.

Flashing blue and red lights.

“I’m so sorry,” Tom said, his voice breaking. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Didn’t mean it?” the man roared, stepping closer. “That doesn’t bring them back! My

wife… my daughter… she was three years old.”

His voice cracked under the weight of grief. “They were my world. And you? Five

years in prison. That’s it. Where’s the justice in that?”

Tom’s chest tightened. “Will killing me change anything?”

The man’s eyes burned with pain. “You took my life away,” he said. “I walk into an

empty house every day. I can’t even go into my daughter’s room.”

Silence stretched between them.

“I need justice,” he said quietly.

He pulled out a knife. “I have nothing left.”

Tom stepped back, shaking. “I don’t want to die. I’m sorry… I truly am. Can you

forgive me?”

The man hesitated. His grip on the knife tightened, then loosened. For a moment,

something flickered in his eyes—doubt, pain, humanity.

Did this broken young man deserve to die?

But the memories came flooding back. The laughter. The loss. The unbearable silence

that followed. His expression hardened.

The knife plunged forward.

Tom gasped as the pain tore through him. He collapsed, the world fading.

The man knelt beside him, placing a photograph on his chest. His wife and daughter,

smiling, frozen in a moment that would never return.

Tom’s eyes closed.

“I’m sorry too,” the man whispered.

The phone rang.

He picked it up.

“Inspector Jennings,” came the voice.

“Send someone to Tom Cadshaw’s apartment,” the man said quietly. “He’s dead.”

He replaced the receiver and let the knife fall to the floor.

The clock chimed midnight. He glanced at it, then back at Tom’s body. The rage

inside him began to fade, replaced by something heavier.

Pity.

“I had to, Tom,” he murmured, tears slipping down his face.

Then he turned and walked slowly out of the apartment.

THE END