The Essence of Revenge

Ezra’s body carried him from the subway entrance to the platform without conscious effort. He boarded the train with the conviction of a seasoned commuter and sat down robotically. No one noticed his red eyes, the tight line of his lips, the dull sheen of his unwashed shoulder-length hair. His head slowly tilted back against the train car wall, eyes distant and unfocused.

He set his black fabric briefcase over his lap and carelessly rested his outstretched hands over the top as if daring the thing to slip away forever. His body surrendered to inertia. He could get used to this, to be in motion forever. A life played out in tandem to the rhythm of the tracks, the flash of underground lights. For the briefest moment, a sense of belonging flickered in Ezra’s chest.

The passengers arranged themselves in anticipation. The train halted, doors opened. “Union Square” rang throughout the train car.

Shit. I should watch what I’m doing.

Ezra lifted off the seat with a jolt. He wedged his briefcase in between the closing doors. They reopened on impact, and he lurched onto the platform. Relief prickled in his veins like the cry of a sleeping limb. An acute awareness of his environment swallowed his attention. The station smelled of a hundred rotting lunches made on some Tuesday from years ago. The eerie glow of fluorescent lighting emanated with bleak intimidation. He grimaced. No one was meant to belong here.

His stiff shoulders caught the rush of people flooding past him. Twitching eyes followed the signs for uptown. The anvil of exhaustion anchored his body to the edge of the subway platform. He sighed. The scene at the lawyer’s office replayed in his mind. A flashback composed of the hostile behavior and bitter words like he traveled back in time to relive the devastation.

His thankless sister spurned the collection of paintings conscientiously selected over a lifetime of scrimping and saving. She slammed her fist on the cherry wood table like a gavel. Ezra accepted the little black book with quiet grace and walked out.

A tidal wave of fear crashed through the rumination. His hand yielded its grip on the briefcase and caught it before gravity carried out its threat. It could have been gone forever, so close but so far away, unreachable like his grandmother. His hand clenched the handle of the black fabric briefcase until there was no slack left in the skin over his knuckles.

The train arrived.

***

Justine’s coffee eyes traced the curvature of her hips in the mirror. She drew her shoulders back and tilted her chin to admire her crisp jawline. City lights illuminated her loft apartment like a thousand pulsing stars. Like the world projected spotlights from the rooftops just for her. She peered out of the window. The cold permeated her nude body pressed against the window glass.

She painted Dutch Baroque still lifes. She gave herself to the expert realism and the interplay of life and death. The grand potential of the large canvas displayed on her easel incited her passion. She knew how to make blank things full, how to drive lines into shapes. Justine transformed a hobby into a career.

She flipped the switch of the studio lights that surrounded the still life. The lighting was precise, bent to her will. Justine had arranged the objects in godly alignment. She studied her reflection in the sheen of the crisp red apple, saw her soul in the filigree of the candelabra.

Her glance caught the paintings she inherited from her grandmother. She grimaced. Disdain rippled through her body. She deserved more, but it was better than that little black book. The art dealer paid her a premium for such rare pieces. Three of seven increased her bank balance by twenty thousand dollars. Money was a siren.

It’s not like she’s watching.

She felt compelled to see her balance again, to relish the numbers. Justine sauntered over to her phone, accessed the application. She blinked to refresh her own sight. Justine deposited the check, she recalled the rise of the balance. She frantically scrolled through the statement. Nothing unusual. No suspicious activity.

The twenty thousand was missing.

She screamed.

***

Morning light found its way in through Ezra’s blinds and grazed his dirty navy blue sheets. He sheltered behind the caseless pillow like it was a fort. It had been four weeks since it happened. Nothing was the same and there is no substitute for certain absences. And yet, sometimes nothing is the only feeling left.

Water trickled in a steady rush down his back. The warmth comforted him, the stream awakened his senses. Ezra tilted his head back under the shower nozzle as his hands ran through his wet hair. He closed his eyes. His thoughts smelled of vanilla shampoo. The soft lather of soap caressed his skin. Suds slid down his body. Dried off and dressed, he inhaled the catharsis of a shower. The fresh feeling emanated from his skin like a symphony of small joys.

The little black book on his nightstand called to him. For two weeks it whispered to him, softly convinced him to pick it up, to write. It made promises. Finally, he gave in with sullen desperation. The melancholy and detachment subsided to acceptance with each entry. The lightness spread throughout his body like water in soil. Ezra continued to write, feeling the safety and solace he once had with his grandmother. It was almost as if the book was a threshold between his world and hers.

Today he was new. He looked around at the nonstop avoidance, unfiltered existence, life in reaction endemic to his studio apartment. Empty cereal boxes, mugs of half-drunk coffee, and mismatched socks amassed like some inanimate monster.

His eyes fell on the empty black fabric briefcase that transported his little black book. It sat on his kitchen table empty as he had left it four weeks ago.

As he lifted it off the table, a waterfall of money tumbled out and cascaded onto the floor. He dropped the briefcase as incredulity seized him and confusion thumped in his mind. With a hunch, he picked up the little black notebook as if it was a lost puzzle piece. Ezra discovered an inscription on the last page:

I’m always watching.