Short Story / Revenge
A woman sits on a park bench. The sun is just starting to fall into the dark earth. She watches it, waiting. Already the young couples have started to feel the cold, slinging together as much for warmth as love. The ducks, sensing that there will be little feeding left; start to scud across the water, black and slick from the afternoon. The pigeons are still about, as they always are, their bullying and hungry shrieking hurting her tired ears. It was then that she decided on her plan for revenge. Someone had to pay for the death of her son.
Yes, she heard the words. ‘It’s an accident. It’s fate. It couldn’t be helped.’ They’re just words. She knew differently. She knew how her son had died and she tried to have something done. Appealing to the authorities was a waste of time. They looked at her as if she was an idiot. Public servants. The last thing they wanted to do was serve the public. The woman softened, as she seemed to melt into the fading light. Around her the pigeons were scuttling, like children at a party.
Her husband, not a bad man, couldn’t cope. For a long while he walked around their little house like a ghost. Then one day he wasn’t walking around any more. It hardly seemed to make a difference. They had spent so long watching his decline, her little boy, that both had forgotten how to talk.
And that was when she decided that if no one was able to do something about it she would. As the last heat of the afternoon bled into the cool of evening she got up, her legs creaking, and shuffled off home, revenge in her heart.
But how? She did not have a gun and she would never be able to learn to shoot well enough. The car would have been a better option. Drop down the gears (her husband had taught her to drive a manual car) and plough straight on. She could cause some real damage that way. A pity her husband had taken the car when he left. There was an empty place out in the drive that reminded her of the emptiness in her life. She spent several days in her darkened house. The TV hummed in the corner, the sound down, as she pondered the best way to kill.
The sounds of someone shifting containers went on all through the night. The woman, still in her fluffy slippers and blue dressing gown, was searching, desperately, for the right ingredients. Rat poison. She knew there was some in there. When they had moved into the little house, after the wedding, they had found the tell tale signs of rats. Her husband had set traps and then poisoned baits. For a while there was scuttling in the wall cavities and then . . . silence. Now she was going to kill vermin again. She smiled grimly. She hoped the suffering was as intense as her boy’s had been. But she doubted it.
As she cooked up her poisoned meal she thought back to the final days of her life. Because that was what it was- the end of her life. At first he had a fever, and a sore throat. Just a cold said her husband, and she agreed. There was a lot of it going around. But after a couple of days he had constant headaches and his joints ached. This worried her and she took him to the local GP. A kindly Indian man, he was concerned but not alarmed. “Probably just a strong dose.” he nodded.
“But I want to keep an eye on it. If he doesn’t improve in the next few days after taking these,” he was filling out a prescription, “come back and see me.”
She watched for signs of improvement. There were none. So she went back. This time the doctor got his receptionist to ring for an ambulance and her boy was whisked off to a bed. She remembered she tried to cheer him up by telling him how exciting it was to ride in an ambulance but he was pale and sweating and did not really hear her.
By morning it was done. Now all she had to do was administer the means of her retribution. She had no doubts. No remorse. It was just. Her boy had died. Now the scales would be balanced. She knew she would have to wait till later, when no-one was around. But there would be no risk. It would look like she was just giving away some food. No one would suspect. Not that she really cared. “Let the world know.” she almost cried out. She had forgotten how it felt to be alive. That part of her died when the doctor came out, her face a mask of concern, and told her that there was nothing they could do. The fever had turned into a . . . the woman still did not understand all of it. All she knew was that her boy, the love of her life, lay in a cold, white hospital bed and would never hold her again. Never run, never laugh, never sing.
A woman sits on a park bench. The sun is just starting to fall into the dark earth. There is no one else around. The ducks have scudded back to where they go. All the lovers have disappeared. She is alone. There is no other sound, except for the rustle of the breeze on the feathers of the pigeons lying at her feet. They look almost peaceful this way. The caterwauling and screeching have stopped. Forever. Her boy looked like that. Peaceful. She remembered how the doctors told her how the disease, some long name she could never pronounce, had probably come from bird droppings. And she remembered her boy playing in the park- the pigeons swirling around him like a living cloud. She knew. She knew who had killed her boy. And now she had her revenge. The night spread its cold across the park as the woman sat waiting for the darkness.
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This story took off in such an unexpected direction. I like how you withhold the object of the revenge until the very end. It’s a bit tongue-in-cheek, and I wonder if you can maximize this effect by making the story a bit more maudlin. (I am assuming that you share my sense of humor.) The general tone of the story is already quite maudlin, but perhaps you can make it more succinct. Consider leaving out the mention of young couples and ducks in the first paragraph. I think that mentioning the pigeons alone is fine because the typical reader would not suspect that pigeons would have anything to do with the little boy’s death.
The main part that was not clear was when the doctor says, “Probably just a strong dose.” I had no idea what he was referring to and for a while there I thought that the doctor and mother were conspiring to poison the son. That sentence can just be left out. Also, you have tense inconsistencies, especially in the beginning.
Also, consider leaving out the part about how she contemplates using the car for revenge. In light of the ending, a car doesn’t seem like an effective way to kill pigeons. Wouldn’t they just fly out of the way?
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“pigeons are still about… their bullying and hungry shrieking hurting her tired ears”
This sounds more like seagulls than pigeons, which I think of cooing and being bullied by bigger birds.
“decided on her plan”
Decided on a plan. ‘Decided on her plan’ sounds like there was Joe’s plan, and Ann’s plan, and her own plan, and she decided to go with her own.
“They’re just words. She knew differently.”
Confusing.
“she tried to have something done”
Too vague. Be specific. Did she seek justice?
“The last thing they wanted to do was serve the public. The woman softened, as she seemed to melt into the fading light.”
Again, confusing. You jump from her memory of dealing with the authorities after her son’s death back to the present action of the story. So, it sounds like she softened when they didn’t serve the public.
“no one was able to do something about it she would”
The preceding sentence talks about how she and her husband had forgotten how to talk. So, the ‘it’ in this sentence refers to that. You need to be clearer and more accurate with your narration.
“As the last heat of the afternoon”
Are you sure you mean ‘as’ and not ‘after’?
“But how?”
Be clearer. Try: ‘But how could she get revenge?’
“(her husband had taught her to drive a manual car)”
Is this explanation necessary? If so, why in parenthesis?
“She smiled grimly”
What does this look like? I’ve never seen anything that would fit that description.
“She hoped the suffering was”
would be?
“Probably just a strong dose.”
Dose of what?
“By morning it was done.”
What was done? The boy was dead? The murder was accomplished? Her rat poison meal was ready (and if so, why did this take all night? Six courses?)? This is your main stylistic error. The ideas connect in your head, because you know what you are talking about. But on paper, the reader has to struggle to figure out what you are talking about. You just between memories and the present, the real world and a mental world, and you don’t even give us paragraph breaks to let us know we are shifting to a different time or place. So, my advice in a nutshell: check ALL your pronouns to find their antecedents. New paragraphs when you switch between memories and present actions.
The ending is not satisfying, because I need to get more inside the head of the character. One mistake you have made is not allowing us to experience anything about her son. If we knew the son, we could miss the son along with her. If saw the tragedy in his death, we may want justice too. But as it is, you’ve got a twist that isn’t very surprising, and a character I don’t understand.
Very good read. Short and sweet.
I don’t understand how she was going to kill bird with her car, but it’s not like she was exactly rational anyway. So that is a minor things.
I wasn’t crazy about the repeated use of scud, scudded, scuttling for the movement of anything other than humans. You may want to alternate those verbs. After that, and even without that, this is ready to be published as far as I’m concerned.
This is a very good story, it had me wondering until the end. The beginning held my attention all the way until the end. I enjoy reading it and I am going to make it one of my favorites. You were very descriptive and you also used the, “Show don’t tell” part. I could feel what the woman was going through and how it just ate away at her. Great Job. Keep writing good stories.
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