Revenge can be a terrible thing, spreading death and destruction across nations and generations. But in the eyes of a single man, it can be a strangely beautiful thing that takes a firm grip at that dark place just behind the heart.
Cajal de Agosto was one such man who had felt the overwhelming desire that is vengeance brooding. He had felt it every waking moment for the past seven years—and often in his dreams, too. It festered his soul, eating away at what remained of his sanity.
He would have revenge for his brother’s death, but it would have to be well executed. And so he waited, pretending to grow close to the man he knew killed his brother.
Dante de Armando was scum in the form of a man. He was a stain upon the Earth that needed to be erased before it did any more damage. He was a low-life thief and drug dealer who had stabbed Antonio de Agosto for the few dollars he had in his pocket that night.
Cajal had gained Dante’s admiration by discretely tipping him off to an incoming raid, an act that had only made the dark burden he carried weigh heavier. But soon he would be free of that burden. He would still carry the guilt of killing a man, but it would be a lesser weight than allowing scum like Dante to live.
It was a cold night when Cajal invited Dante in for a drink. Dark clouds obscured the stars and the moon, and a fierce breeze whistled through the streets. The swine accepted, clearly having already indulged himself.
It was a simple matter for Cajal to steal a little of the drug dealer’s product as he escorted the man in. When they arrived at Cajal’s manor, he offered his guest a choice of drinks.
“Whatever’s strong, my friend,” he replied with a slur.
“I have just the thing.” Cajal fixed his guest a very dark rum, which had been aging for quite a while, on the rocks. He added in the drugs he had stolen, and swirled the drink to dissolve the fine powder. Then he fixed a scotch for himself.
Dante downed half of his drink and then peered at it with a look of distaste on his face. Cajal quickly offered a toast before his guest could comment on it.
“To your continued business success,” he raised his glass and the drug dealer did the same with an understanding grin.
Dante finished his drink with a tremendous gulp and then sat back in his chair looking content. Cajal said nothing, and after a moment, his guest began to fall asleep. Cajal slowly finished his drink while he waited for the drugs to tear through the man’s system.
He placed his empty glass on the table and rose from his chair right as the other man began to retch in his sleep. Removing the handkerchief from his shirt pocket, Cajal covered the man’s mouth, suffocating him.
When his guest finally stopped moving, Cajal dragged him into the street and deposited the body around the corner.
Cajal de Agosto burned his handkerchief when he returned, and as the flames consumed it and the ash slowly blew away, he felt the weight on his soul lessen..