Et Relinqueretur
Prologue
"Hatred is blind and anger is deaf: the one who pours himself a cup of vengeance is likely to drink a bitter draught."
I stared at the page in thought as I pondered over the words that I had read and reread a hundred times over. When I was a little girl my understanding of revenge was as simple as the Sunday school proverbs it hid behind. Neat little morality slogans like "Do unto others" and "Two wrongs don't make a right." They are right of course –two wrongs don't make a right because one wrong could never equal another. For the truly wronged real satisfaction can only be achieved in one of two places, absolute forgiveness or mortal vindication.
I was only given those two choices; but how am I to forgive when I cannot forget all the pain, hatred, and torment that I have suffered? When my past keeps coming into my future and dragging me into my present? That's just it though; forgiveness isn't an option –not for me.
The tattered copy of The Count of Monte Cristo in my hands was my most treasure possession. Most children are read fairytales of princes and princesses, frogs and kisses, and dwarfs and knights; but not me. I didn't have Green Eggs and Ham or The Little Engine that Could; instead I spent the majority of my childhood pouring over the story of Dante's revenge as if it were some sort of bible. I related to that story much more than any fairytale.
Life was certainly no fairytale. There was no black or white –no real right or wrong –just an array of grey. In my life I was able to sort people into one of two groups: the strong and the weak, the survivors and the ones who gave up, those who ruled and those who were subjected, the deceivers and the deceived. I was raised not to be weak, to be ruthless, and to thirst for perfection until that was all I strived for. I was to be something more than human.
I flipped through the leafed pages to the front cover that was barely holding on at the seams. Torn at the corner and water warped from when it got knocked out of my hands into a puddle it didn't look like much. Most anyone else would have mistook it as a piece of garbage and thrown it in the trash, but not me. This seemingly unimportant novel has been the source of my strength through the last twenty years. It has been my life preserver in the stormy sea that is my life, my rock, and my determination to keep living.
My eyes scanned over the messy cursive words sprawled on the back of the cover: "Yes, possible. –X".
"I love you more." "Not possible."
A drop of water hit the page and seeped into the paper. I didn't know if it was the rain or my own tears. The light drizzle was washing down my face along with my own salty tears that it didn't really matter either way. I looked up from the book to the grave stone in front of me. Freshly cut flowers adorned the recently unearthed plot, the funeral having just ended not thirty minutes ago I stood there having not the slightest clue of what to say or do.
I was amazed at how someone's life could be reduced to a mere five words –loving mother and dear friend. It didn't describe anything about the person. It didn't show her strength or her perseverance. It told nothing of the heartache she experienced when her daughter was taken from her grasp or the pain that she lived with every minute of every day. Renee was much more than a mother and friend. She was a survivor. Why wasn't that engraved in stone?
I thought back to the funeral remembering the speech that my sister gave in honor of her mother. I remember that feeling of being completely helpless as I watched from a distance, unable to come closer or even comfort her. I remember the feeling of failure that I couldn't do anything to prevent this and the anger that it took until this moment from me to finally find my way back to her.
"Hi mom," I croaked. The words caught in my throat as I tried to come up with something to say.
"This wasn't how I saw our reunion going. You're disappointed as well. I haven't called or visited and for that I'm truly sorry. I always intended to make my way back, but I knew that it was just better for me to stay away –safer. You had a life; a loving husband and a beautiful daughter. You were happy and that is all that I wanted for you. I being in your life wouldn't have done that; not when my past haunts every step I take," I told the grave.
"This is so weird," I laughed humorlessly, "Isn't talking to air something people discourage? The chances of you even listening are virtually nonexistent –you're dead." As if I needed to remind myself. There was a perverse sense of humor in this situation as I stood here in front of two fresh graves. It reminded me of that quote by Confucius: "Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves." Now it looks like my two graves have already been dug and filled for me.
"I'm going up to Washington. It's about time I head home. I can't keep running in the opposite direction thinking it's going to protect people. That turned out so well with you. Hopefully you don't mind waiting a little longer, I'm sure I'll be seeing you soon," I glanced over to the other grave of my stepfather, "Tell Phil I'm sorry I never got to meet him and that I don't think there could have been a better choice of a husband for you."
Okay so I rewrote this prologue because I didn't feel like the last one really set the tone for this story and I it felt a like it was overly explaining things. Constructive Criticism is encourage and appreciated. Tell me if you like this prologue better or the one before it.