Retribution begins
1042 Words
Chapter Four: Retribution Begins
My mission came faster than I expected because our relationship had lasted long enough for everything to fall into place.
I didn’t want him dead.
Death would have been too easy.
What I wanted was for him to understand what suffering felt like. I wanted him to experience a small part of the pain he had forced me to live with. I wanted him to know what it meant to spend sleepless nights, to worry about tomorrow, and to realize that every action has consequences.
For years, I had replayed that night in my mind. No matter how hard I tried to move forward, the memories always found their way back. Every birthday, every celebration, every quiet night reminded me of the innocence that had been stolen from me. I wasn’t searching for revenge because I enjoyed seeing someone suffer. I was searching for peace. I wanted the nightmares to stop. I wanted justice to silence the pain that had lived inside me for so long.
Time passed.
One weekend, I went over to his place like I always did. Everything seemed normal between us. We laughed, talked, and spent time together as though nothing had ever happened. To everyone around us, we looked like the perfect couple, planning a beautiful future together.
Not long afterward, everything changed.
He suddenly became seriously ill.
What started as a routine hospital check-up quickly turned into an admission. The doctors carried out one test after another, trying to understand why his condition continued to worsen. Days passed, but there were no easy answers.
The rest became history.
He was placed on different medications and endured countless injections. Every day seemed to bring another needle, another test, another painful procedure.
For six months, the hospital became his home.
The once cheerful and confident young man was barely recognizable. His laughter disappeared, replaced by exhausted sighs and whispered prayers. Some days he was too weak to sit up without help. Watching nurses move him from one examination room to another, I couldn’t help wondering if this was what regret looked like.
His parents visited often.
Their faces carried fear and exhaustion. Every time they saw me sitting beside his bed, they thanked me for staying with him through everything.
“You’ve been such a blessing to our son,” his mother once told me with tears in her eyes.
I forced a smile.
“If only you knew,” I whispered silently.
Throughout those six months, I never left his side.
I visited him every chance I got. We prayed together every day, asking God to spare his life. I encouraged him whenever he felt hopeless and held his hand whenever fear overwhelmed him.
Everyone who saw us believed I was a loving and devoted girlfriend.
Was it evil of me?
Maybe.
But at that time, I believed I was only seeking justice for what had been done to me.
One quiet afternoon, while sunlight streamed through the hospital window, I finally gathered the courage to ask the question that had lived in my heart since the day he destroyed my life.
“Why did you do it?”
He stared at the ceiling without answering.
His eyes slowly filled with tears.
I asked again.
“Why did you do what you did to me?”
His lips trembled.
For a long moment, he remained silent before finally speaking.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
The words came slowly, as though each one weighed heavily on his soul.
He admitted that the guilt had followed him every single day. Every time he looked at me, he remembered that night. He confessed that he had wanted to ask for forgiveness countless times, but fear kept him silent.
Then, to my greatest surprise, he admitted something I never expected.
He had not acted alone.
Someone had sent him.
He told me that when he first came to school, he had no money and couldn’t even pay his bills. Desperate to survive, he accepted almost any opportunity that promised quick cash.
He confessed that he had lived recklessly and had made many shameful decisions because he needed money.
As painful as his confession was, there was only one thing I wanted to know.
“Who sent you?”
He looked at me with tired, broken eyes.
Then he slowly shook his head.
“I’ll carry that name to my grave.”
His answer shattered the little hope I had left.
I quietly stood up and walked out of the hospital room.
For a brief moment, I felt sorry for him.
Not because of his suffering.
But because he had chosen to take the truth with him.
My first mission wasn’t complete.
The real culprit was still out there.
I searched my memories over and over again, thinking about everyone I had ever met in school.
Who hated me enough to destroy my life?
Who wanted to see me broken?
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t think of anyone.
For the first time, I felt defeated.
I had waited years for answers.
Instead, I had discovered an even greater mystery.
As I stood outside the hospital room, I looked through the glass and saw him praying with tears in his eyes.
Perhaps suffering had brought him closer to God.
Perhaps God had used that painful season to call one of His children back to Him.
As for me…
Was I a psychopath?
No.
At least, I didn’t think so.
I believed I was simply a wounded woman searching for justice.
Or perhaps…
I was still a good child of God.
I honestly didn’t know anymore.
As I walked out of the hospital that evening, the setting sun painted the sky in shades of orange and crimson. People hurried past me, unaware that my entire world had changed once again.
I had waited years to hear the truth, believing it would finally set me free.
Instead, it had opened another door.
He wasn’t the beginning of my nightmare.
He was only part of it.
Somewhere, the person who had orchestrated my pain was still living freely, believing they had escaped justice.
They were wrong.
My journey wasn’t over.
In many ways…
It was only just beginning.
- Writer
