Page 4 of Nemesis
More space for the wounds to fester and rot. Ironically enough, just like what was under this cemetery.
I had never been to a funeral before. The only one I’d ever wanted to attend, I wasn't able to because someone had put a bullet in me and left me fighting for my life. That someone being the catalyst for my presence here today, two weeks after his wife’s death.
The graveyard was at the back of the church and was filled with rows upon rows of headstones etched with inscriptions. While everyone was inside for the service, I waited behind the thick trunk of a tree in the middle of the forest behind the burial site to watch him put his wife to rest.
At least he was given the opportunity to do so. I hadn’t even been able to bury my own parents.
Having to bury someone you love was painful, but not being able to bury them was even worse. I had no place to mourn, no grave to tend.
The sky slowly grew dimmer, the clouds creating shadows above us right as the swirling wind picked up. Shivering, I pulled my jacket tighter against my body in an attempt to warm myself up as I continued to wait for the first half of the service to end.
It was another twenty minutes before a large group of mourners gathered around the empty grave pit. They moved to sit on the black chairs lined to the right while they waited for Elena’s casket to be transported to its designated spot.
Victor Morales was amongst the crowd, leading them at the front.
The official ME report claimed that Elena Morales died of smoke inhalation at their summer house in Adrar where she was vacationing for the summer. The fire was ruled as an accident by the fire department, where they’d claimed a faulty wire had jumped and initiated what led to her death.
Elena’s body had been so severely burned—making her beyond recognition—that they’d decided to proceed with a closed casket. Once it was in place, the priest’s voice boomed across the lot, “Elena Morales was a beloved wife and friend. Now, her husband, Victor, would like to say a few words.”
Victor Morales rose from his seat and made his way to the small stage where the priest was standing, stepping in front of the microphone. “Thank you, Pastor Hernandez,” he said, giving a small nod of gratitude in his direction.
After all these years, you would think that the effect of his voice would have faded, but the sharp reminder remained.
Grief permeated the air, coating my lungs, but it was quickly replaced by the familiar bitter taste of anger. My heart squeezed tight at the memory of the last time I’d heard him, my eyes fluttering shut as the memory crashed into me like a tidal wave against my will.
The screams.The gunshots.
My mother's lifeless body on the floor of our living room, her once vibrant brown skin now dull, tendrils of blood writhing like venomous snakes across the front of her robe.
Her eyes wide, fixated on me as shadows of terror clouded her expression when she realized that it was over.
And I was next in line.
The mechanical thrumof the casket lowering into the earth brought my attention back to the present. I shook the flashbacks away before my eyes landed back on the man who took everything from me.
When the casket descended and disappeared from view, the priest gestured the cross sign over his chest, then closed his Bible and called to God by proclaiming an “amen,” which was quickly followed by the echo of everyone else's “amens.”
Morales bent down and grasped a handful of soil before tossing it onto the casket right as droplets of rain started to batter against my skin.
After paying their respects one last time, guests drifted away, a sea of black and umbrellas leaving the cemetery. I huddled closer to the tree, making sure to remain out of everyone’s sight.
A few people stayed behind, chatting on one side, while his men motioned for Morales to move to his car, but he lifted a hand, stopping them as if he needed more time before leaving her.
Then, he just stood there, looming over his wife’s dead body. As if he ever truly cared.
My hands trembled with the need to end this charade, but I shoved them in my coat’s pockets instead, gripping the gun tucked inside, the cold metal stinging the urge away.
My longshot had improved over the years and I could easily end this with a bullet to his head. But a quick death would never be a satisfying enough end for him.
Revenge was so much sweeter when you could savor it.
Death was only one moment in time, but I wanted him to live in misery. I wanted to hurt him in the worst possible ways, wanted him to see the thing he loved the most seep from his fingers.
Control.
Since one of his most prized possessions was already underground, there was only one thing left for him to lose. One day soon enough, I would take joy in making sure he witnessed everything he’dworkedfor go down in flames.
Despite the storm picking up, he remained still. He was wearing a three-piece black suit, with polished black wingtips, the rain sluicing over his frame. His ebony hair was plastered to his face, a mask of grief etching his features.
