Lydia

Lydia

I picked Lydia up at 7:00 PM sharp. We rode in silence for the duration of the twenty-minute drive to the designated spot: the luxurious estate of our boss, the esteemed Mr. Beverly Hoult. His two-story home was nestled picturesquely into the mountainside. Parking in front of the house directly across the street, as she instructed, we could clearly see into the great dining room through the expansive front window of the lower level.

As I looked in on the scene, I could not understand why this psycho woman in my passenger’s seat wanted Mr. Hoult and his family to suffer. To me, the family seemed ordinary despite their obvious affluence and social status. Mr. Hoult and his wife had two beautiful girls—one three years of age and one nearly two—whom I had the pleasure of meeting at last year’s Christmas party in this very home. Looking in on the family of four as they sat gathered at the dinner table, I knew that what my companion wanted was wrong. Gazing at the youngest child and the wife especially, my heart seemed to plummet into my stomach, forming a heavy weight within me. I shook my head to fight the tears that were threatening to come. No, I thought. I cannot do this. I WILL NOT do this. Not to him, not to his wife, and not to the children.

Not to my goddamned family.

Obviously infuriated with my idling and lack of urgency, Lydia groaned beside me, suddenly bringing me out of my reverie.

“Just get out and do it. Why are you fucking hesitating? Are you that much of a chicken shit? Just do it, for Christ’s sake, and be quick about it. I don’t want to just sit here waiting for the ‘right moment.’”

She was begging me, an air of impatience lacing her voice. I could tell from her icy tone that she desperately wanted me to go through with the act. Would it really help to change the situation at hand, though? It surely wouldn’t help me any, I thought to myself as I sat there watching the happenings through the tinted window of my driver’s side door. I’d just wind up in prison for stroking the ego of my sick, twisted, demented lunatic of an ex-fiancé. I’d have to serve time—maybe even a life sentence—all on her account. And, for what? Because I loved her? Please. Although she had attributes that I couldn’t help but crave in a woman—the way her voice was tempting an alluring like that of a siren, for example—I had stopped loving her when I realized just how much of a crazy, psychotic bitch of a woman she truly was.

No. I wasn’t doing anything for her out of love. After the split, she had found a reason and a way to make me her puppet and use me to exact her revenge. Sick, demented revenge against people who had “done her wrong.” And, coincidentally, one of those people had somehow been me. However, instead of hiring a hit-man to gun me down or torturing me to the point I’d want to off myself, she made me her bitch.

And, that was what I was here to do. Stroke her ego and do her bidding, exacting her revenge against Mr. Hoult and his family all because her bitch ass didn’t get the promotion to be his executive editor.

“Oh, my God, what are you waiting for Richard, some sort of specialized invitation? JUST DO IT, YOU STUPID SON OF A BITCH!!”

It was then that I finally turned around to face her, my eyes burning with rage.

Bang. Stupid bitch.

Bang. This was what you asked for.

Bang. Revenge.

“Goodnight, Lydia.”