Sierra

T hey say talking about trauma can help with healing, but for me, it only seems to stoke my anger. Every time I speak to a new therapist or even think about what happened when I was abducted, it feels like pouring fuel on the fire. A full day is all it took for them to take my sanity and then those fuckers were killed. I should be grateful, should have been relieved to even be alive, and yet I'm struggling. I keep fighting off every piece of disgust I feel rolling through my body anytime someone gets too close, the bile that threatens to come up each time I smell a cigarette, a vice that I loved to indulge in sometimes, ripped away from me.

No, instead I returned to society a few days later, like an angel of death, one that preys on those who steal pieces of innocent souls and drags them to the depths of hell they belong in. That's how I ended up here, across the street from some pedophile's home, with a white ski mask covering my face. Two hours away from my little dive bar on a busy night, stalking the asshole who has repeatedly abused the little girl he is supposed to protect like she was his own. Instead, the sick fuck has stolen her innocence, and repeatedly became her nightmare in her own sanctuary, while her mother stays oblivious of every act. She's no better than him, she couldn't protect her own daughter from the clutches of her stepfather, similar to my own.

My upbringing wasn't the most pleasant, it was a distant memory, one that I rarely thought of, one that I had full control of until it was shattered the moment that asshole's tiny flaccid cock was forced inside me. I had drifted back to my safe space in my head, exactly as I had as a child, the one place in my mind that I was truly free of the clutches that held me down. Escaping brought up every painful memory I tried to forget, etching the image of the men that used me like a slideshow on repeat, adding fire to the flames of my fury.

Each image has me stepping forward, step by step until I find my way around the white suburban house, opening the back door with the weapon of death in hand. I creak up the stairs, up into the bedroom. I had watched from a distance when his daughter and wife had left due to the message they received from an anonymous number. I'm grateful they listened without question, then again, when a threat comes in against your life, it's in your best interest to listen. I stand there, watching as the disgusting man sleeps, his stomach hangs out from his shirt with only the blankets wrapped around his legs. Prowling around like a cheetah stalking her prey, I slowly lift my feet one after another, walking closer and closer. With a small dreadful creak of the floor, he stirs around in the darkness. I freeze, not allowing myself to make a sound, until I'm sure he's asleep once more. I move in closer, grabbing the blade harder, imagining the screams of fear coming from his mouth, the look of terror in his eyes, and feeling his life slowly come to an end with each strike of my blade.

Excitement flows through my veins, the promise of justice by my hands has me giddy as a schoolgirl on Sunday. I stand right in front of him, my knife inches from the veins on his neck. I don't give him a chance to register what's happening. My blade pierces his skin, deep enough to draw blood but slow enough that he's awoken by the pain as he bleeds out. I don't slice his neck, just a quick stab on the side. I want him to feel the way I slice the rest of his pathetic body before he dies.

His cries fill the room, his hands fly up to his wound, holding himself as the blood pours out of his body like a fountain. He looks up at the mask, confused and disoriented, like he's trying to comprehend what is happening to him.

"Fucking pig, this is for your stepdaughter and the vile shit you've done. I'll meet you in hell, asshole. I'll be sure to torture your soul for the rest of eternity," I snarl, gripping the handle of my blade and bringing it down to his fat stomach, twisting it to inflict more pain. Pulling it out and stabbing him again, and again, I lose count after five, and I let go, losing myself in the moment as I continue sinking my blade deeper inside that monster until his limp body is covered in blood. My mask has blood splatter all around it, and the silence in the room turns deadly.

I make my way out the house the same way I entered, making sure there was no evidence left behind, no cameras that may have witnessed the torture I had inflicted, everything was clear thanks to that little girl. If I had more time, I could have gone slower, dragged his death out for a while or even made him believe that he'd be saved before ripping it away from him. I just can't risk getting caught; this was an extracurricular activity that I never expected to have been involved in since that fateful night my own stepfather got what he deserved.

But at least now I know justice was served, he deserved every slice of my weapon, every drop of blood that poured from his body was the payment for years of abuse, of killing the innocence of little girls. I walk through the shadows, and through the woods near the home disappearing from what will surely be on the news tomorrow, adding this as another body by the Slasher.

Justice can be bittersweet.