The killer stood in the shadow of an aging oak tree, its gnarled branches reaching out like the twisted thoughts that clawed at the edges of his mind. Across the street, the modest trailer of Julia Lansing seemed to mock him with its innocuous appearance. A light flickered on, and there she was, framed in the window, her glasses catching a glint of the pale moonlight. Shoulder-length brown hair, once dark as the night itself, now betrayed strands of silver under the artificial glow.
Rage bubbled up inside him, thick and hot like tar, coating his insides until he felt he might choke on it. His breathing grew heavier, and he balled his hands into fists so tight his knuckles whitened, the skin stretched and threatened to split. The sight of her, moving about her home with such casual disregard for the world outside, ignited something primal within him—a ferocious need for retribution that had been simmering since childhood.
And then, without warning, time rippled and folded around him, and he wasn't a grown man lurking in the shadows anymore. He was eight years old again, small and insignificant.
His step-father had burned him with a cigarette. It wasn't the first time Carl Mendez had heaped abuse on him, but it was the first time the man had burned him. Even all these years later, he could still feel the fire searing into his flesh.
He had run out the door, tears streaming down his face. He was desperate to get away—for something, anything, to give him solace or safety, and there had been Julia, sitting on her plastic lawn chair, drinking what was clearly not her first beer of the day.
For a moment, he thought, perhaps, she would save him. Or at least comfort him. After all, she certainly would have heard the yelling through the walls. She could see the bruises from last week's beating, and the blisters from the cigarette burn were already starting to appear. A decent person would have cared. A decent person would have intervened. But Julia Lansing was not a decent person.
“You are a pathetic little boy," Julia said, standing as he approached her, her scornful tone cutting deep into his youthful heart. “You worthless crybaby. You'll never amount to anything. Go home; nobody wants you here.”
Her figure loomed large over him, a towering presence that made the world shrink away until there was nothing but her and the crushing weight of her verbal lashings. It was as though she were right there again, standing in front of him with that same look of disgust etched upon her features, as if he were nothing more than dirt beneath her shoe.
He remembered the way his chest had tightened back then, how the humiliation burned hotter than the cigarette his step-father had ground into his skin. But the helplessness that had once consumed him was gone, replaced by a dark satisfaction that soon, very soon, the tables would be turned. He reveled in the thought of her fear, the panic that would surely grip her when she realized that this time, she was the one who should be afraid. She was the one who was going to get burned.
He clenched his fists, feeling the power coursing through his veins like an electric current. He had been a powerless child once, a victim of scorn and ridicule, but that was a distant memory now. The tables had turned; he was no longer the boy who cowered in fear. He was the architect of retribution, the hand of fate that would bring Julia Lansing to her knees.
The air around him was still thick with anticipation. His breath came slow and deliberate, a predator biding his time. The trailer park was a grim canvas, littered with forgotten dreams and lives spent running in circles. Broken toys and faded lawn chairs were scattered haphazardly, painting a picture of neglect. Yet amidst this desolation, Julia's trailer stood out, its windows glowing with the false warmth of a life that was about to change forever.
He imagined her fear as a tangible thing, a creature writhing in the dark corners of her mind. It would grow, fed by the flames of his making, until it consumed her whole. That thought alone was enough to send a shiver of exhilaration down his spine. He had the power now. With every second that ticked by, he relished the growing certainty of her impending doom.
Shaking off the reverie of vengeance, his gaze sharpened, focusing on the present. He watched Julia's every move with a hawk’s intensity. She walked from room to room, her silhouette casting elongated shadows on the flimsy curtains. The television flickered, throwing splashes of light onto her face—a face that remained unchanged, as if frozen in time, still wearing the same expression of disdain that haunted his nightmares.
A dog barked somewhere in the distance, breaking the silence of the night. A siren wailed, fading as quickly as it had appeared. But he was unmoved by these distractions. His eyes remained fixed on Julia, tracing her steps with an unwavering gaze. Every gesture she made, every mundane task she performed, was cataloged in the dark recesses of his mind.
He was the silent observer, the shadow just beyond the reach of the light, waiting for the perfect moment to reveal himself. With each breath, he edged closer to the precipice of action, ready to plunge into the abyss and drag Julia down with him. There was no room for hesitation—only the cold, unyielding resolve of a man who had waited far too long for his moment of reckoning.
The shrill laughter of a sitcom audience spilled from Julia's trailer, the sound grating against his heightened senses. He lurked in the shadows, just beyond the halo of dim light cast by the porch lamp. The night was his accomplice, a cloak that rendered him invisible to the world, especially to her. He reveled in this proximity to Julia, the irony of it—he was so close, and, yet, she was utterly unaware of the impending danger that he embodied.
Her routine was a pattern he had studied with meticulous care. She would watch television until late, occasionally rising to refill her wine glass or fetch a snack from the kitchen. Her predictability was almost comforting, a predictable dance that led to an inevitable climax only he could foresee. It gave him a sense of control he had never known as a child—the power to orchestrate events to a crescendo of his choosing.
His pulse quickened as he imagined the moment fast approaching. It wouldn't be long now; the anticipation was a living thing within him, a serpent coiling tighter with each passing second. His fingers twitched in the darkness, itching for the action to come.
He envisioned the act itself: the rough texture of the matchbox in his hand, the resistance as he struck the match, the tiny flare of light before it blossomed into a flame. The fire would start small, insignificant—a glowing ember that would soon consume everything. It would lick its way across the floor, greedy for more, devouring the oxygen, reaching for the ceiling, desperate to break free and roar to life.
The scenario played out in his mind's eye with vivid clarity. Each crackle and pop of the flames was a note in the melody of revenge, a song of retribution for years of torment and fear. Fire was alive; it danced and swayed with a life of its own, beautiful and terrifying in its destruction. He saw it all: the wallpaper peeling, the curtains igniting, the suffocating smoke billowing as it searched for an escape he would not provide.
His breath came in shallow gasps, not from fear but from sheer excitement. Soon, very soon, he would light the match that set his plan into motion. Soon, he would revel in the sight of the inferno, the culmination of his deeply buried rage and sorrow. It was a power, a rush unlike anything else—to create and destroy with a single, simple action.
His mind was a theater, playing out the horrific scene over and over. He could see Julia's panicked movements as she realized her escape was cut off, the terror that would grip her heart when she understood that there was no way out. He imagined the heat scorching her skin, the air turning to fire in her throat, and in these cruel fantasies, he found solace. This was his retribution, his justice. And it was only moments away.
With each shallow breath, he prepared himself for what was to come. He shifted his weight, feeling the matchbook press against his thigh through the fabric of his trousers. It was a simple tool, yet it held so much power. A small, decisive action, and her world would erupt into flames.
Taking one last look at Julia, blissfully unaware of her impending doom, he backed away from the window. His plan was clear, every detail meticulously thought out. He would light the blaze and then return to this spot to bear witness to the unfolding nightmare. Perhaps he would let her see him—not just his frame, but his face, let her gaze meet the cold eyes of her executioner as the fire consumed everything she knew.
The idea sent another jolt of electricity through him, and he clutched the matchbook tighter. Yes, he would watch the whole thing. He wouldn't leave early, as he had done before, walking away after her fate was sealed but before she had succumbed to it. He would stand there, outside the window of her trailer, as the fire roared to life and devoured everything within, including Julia Lansing. Maybe, just maybe, in those final moments, she would see him—really see him—and understand the depth of the pain she had inflicted all those years ago.
For now, though, he waited. The time was nearing, but patience was crucial. Every second that ticked by was another second of agony for him, but it was necessary. Timing was everything, and if he was going to keep going without being caught before his grand finale had been completed, he had to be patient.
“Soon,” he whispered to himself.
The word tasted sweet on his tongue like candy. Soon, the fire would rage, and Julia Lansing would finally feel the fear that had been his constant companion. Only then would his rage be quenched—in the flames, in her terror, and in the dark justice he was about to deliver.