Grabbing the bow and an arrow, I pull my arm back and focus on the target in front of me. It’s almost by the trees, and the minute the wind stops just for a second, I let go and watch it score me a bull’s-eye.
My husband is a murderer, no matter how much I twist the facts or think he acted for the greater good. Though he may have saved lives by eliminating all these men…the truth remains.
He’s a murderer, and there is blood on his hands that nothing and no one would ever wipe away.
Snatching another arrow, I walk to the left and pull my arm back, zeroing my attention on the target that’s slightly crooked, standing several feet away from the first one.
A blast of wind hits me in the face, my hair fluttering backward while I even out my breathing and wait.
Once the time is perfect, I let go, and it hits another bull’s-eye, although the arrow is barely holding on.
I hum in displeasure and go back to the patio table.
“What should I do?” I whisper, munching on the cookie as my time with Orion flashes in my mind.
Beautiful, tempting memories of feeling adored and cherished for the first time in my life. Even my grandmother’s love was conditional, and I was always afraid to lose it. She took me in and accepted me as her granddaughter, giving me access to a good education and putting a roof over my head. She’d even encourage my love for reading, and we’d have long conversations about different stories, or she’d share the town’s gossip with me while drinking her scotch. However, she never shielded me from Father or Grant, quietly accepting their mistreatment of me, and whenever she saw the wounds on my back, she advised me to never speak about them. Because family matters should never be discussed with outsiders.
My husband made me think it was okay to just be myself.
However, what does it say about me if I don’t care what he did? I hate what he did, and I could never justify it as we have laws and rules for a reason. After all, we cannot go around killing people.
Do the ends justify the means in this case?
Dusting my hands, I grab another arrow and look at the third target positioned slightly to the right, farther away from the previous two, and pull my arm back, gritting my teeth when the boom of thunder echoes in the sky, followed by a bolt of lightning. The wind increases its speed, only to calm down a moment later.
I fire my shot and watch it fly right into the target, this time landing several inches away when another gust of wind hits us, meaning it’s unable to reach its goal.
Glancing up at the sky, I grumble, “Could you please let me blow off some steam? I’m making life-altering decisions here.”
Or rather, coming to the realization that my morals aren’t very high.
Acting for the greater good still makes him a villain.
I was never attached to the heroes in my stories much anyway.
Does this then make me as bad as him?
“There is also Grant.”
He isn’t dead. After watching the footage, I called our old housekeeper to check what was going on and found out he’s been in the hospital for the past week. He has various injuries that suggest he was extensively tortured and refuses to speak about it, even to the authorities. Despite being alive, the doctors say he will have a difficult recovery, and there will be some physical functions he’ll never get back.
And scars.
His body is practically covered in them, and every single one mimics those on my back, as if Orion purposely poured salt into the wounds so they’d never heal.
I should be horrified…however, the little girl still living inside me, who he terrorized for simply existing, rejoices over what happened to him.
Because Orion did all the things Grant used to do to me as a child, and more.
The justice no one else would have given me, and if it’s wrong in the eyes of society…does it matter to me?
Where was society when my father and brother abused me, or when I showed up to school with bruises that they made a thousand excuses for? Or when my mom died?
I ran away from the mansion because I couldn’t think there.
Here in my sanctuary, I see things clearly, and they might paint me in a less-than-stellar light, but I don’t care.
And maybe that’s the scariest part of all.
