The Payback

By

Richard Leighland

©2025 Richard Leighland. All rights reserved. Reproduced with permission from the author.

She broke my heart. It’s been three weeks, but the wound is still fresh. It’s over; there’s no chance we’ll work it out. Not ever.

I want her dead.

The sky’s dark; the air’s bitter cold. The half moon casts pale light on the street as I drive through Chelsea’s—the taste of her name is still bitter—neighborhood. Her neighborhood’s not the worst, but I wouldn’t want to raise my family here, but people do. The patchy yards littered with broken toys and rusty bicycles are evidence of that.

Nobody’s out; too cold. Just as well. I shiver and turn on the heater for a few seconds, then I turn it back off. It spits out tepid air, which only pisses me off. The car’s a piece of junk. It’s beat all to hell and runs like an old lazy mule, but the price was right. That it’s inconspicuous makes it perfect for my purpose. Anyway, after tonight, I’m getting rid of it. Don’t make a damn if the heater works or not.

I shift the car into park a couple houses from Chelsea’s place in the cul-de-sac. Her car’s not in the drive, which surprises me a little, but it’s still early. She’s probably out spreading her legs for some blowhard. Ah well, it doesn’t matter. I’m not in any hurry. I pour a cup of coffee from my thermos and settle into my seat to wait.

Headlights flare in the rearview a half hour later. I slink down in the seat and peer over the dash. It’s Chelsea. She passes without even looking my direction.

She parks, pops open her trunk and takes out a large suitcase. The passenger side rises substantially as her mother gets out.

Well shit.

I wasn’t expecting this development, but it’s fine. In fact, better than fine. I loathe Chelsea’s mother, so I’m happy to accommodate her.

The Cow practically glues herself to Chelsea as they walk to the door. She’s clutching her faded denim purse to her bosom and keeps looking around as if someone might jump from the bushes and take it from her. I can see her jowls flapping as she blathers on, probably in terse whispers about the terrible neighborhood. Boy, is she ever in for a surprise.

Chelsea flings open the door; The Cow follows behind her and squeezes through, but not before taking another nervous look back. I smile and wave, though I know she can’t see me.

The curtains are thin and transparent enough so I can see clearly inside. The light illuminates the room like a stage. The Cow plops into a chair and sags against the cushions. Chelsea stands in front of her and gesticulates as she always does when she’s upset. I suppose the visit is a surprise for her as well.

I figure there’s trouble brewing down on the ol’ farm. I bet The Cow’s grungy husband has shooed her away as if she were a militant fly at a picnic. No shock to me.

I met him once. Neither he or The Cow would win any awards for looks or personality. They have an ugly you just can’t fix. How they could spawn a girl like Chelsea, I’ve no clue. Chelsea’s by no means a supermodel, but she’s definitely not ugly. A guy wouldn’t contemplate suicide when waking next to her after a night partying with Jose and Jack. They say a girl often turns into her mother, so I won’t rule it out completely. It’s too bad nobody’ll have a chance to find out.

I watch as they bicker until The Cow bursts into tears. Chelsea just stands there, her arms crossed while The Cow struggles to get up. She finally makes it out of the chair and she shuffles, slump-shouldered, toward the bedrooms.

The corner of my mouth twitches up with pleasure.

The guestroom lights dimly for a few brief seconds. The Cow doesn’t bother turning on a light, so I guess she’s going straight to bed. She’ll probably fall asleep quickly. A long trip and the drinks she most assuredly had on the plane will work as a nice sedative. Her emotional outburst will also help her tire easily. She’s not going to be a problem.

I turn my attention back to the living room. Chelsea’s pacing the room, her arms held stiffly at her sides while she makes tight turns. She’s angry about something, and whatever it is, I hope she’s suffering. I grin hard enough to make my face ache.

She starts toward the kitchen, but changes course and goes to her bedroom, but first, she’ll brush her teeth and toss back some Valium.

When the light comes on at the far corner of the house, I wonder if she knows her silhouette can be seen through the cheap vinyl shade as she readies for bed. There once was a time the sight would turn me on, but not anymore. Now, the thought disgusts me.

It feels like a lifetime, but after only ten minutes, her light shuts off. I decide to give it another half hour before I proceed. No reason to rush things, especially after making it this far.

I check my watch and gather my things. I slip out of the car and push the door to without shutting it all the way. I look around and see it’s all clear. Everyone’s too busy watching TV and trying to stay warm. They aren’t worried about anything going on out here. I pull my black stocking cap over my ears, shove my hands into the pockets of my sweatshirt, and walk quickly toward Chelsea’s. The frosted grass crunches under my feet as I make my way across the yard to her door. I take another look around, see I’m still safe, and open the door with my key. She still hasn’t changed her locks. In a few minutes, she’s going to wish she had.

Inside, I screw a silencer onto my pistol and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. I can hear The Cow snoring, so I’m not too worried about making too much noise. I stay quiet just the same. She’s my first stop.

I nudge her door open and move to the end of her bed. She snorts, gasps, and lets out a blubbery fart. Her eyes pop open wide when she sees the pistol in her face.

“Moo moo, bitch,” I whisper and pull the trigger.

With the force of two bullets, her head whips back; blood and brains spatter the wall. The rank odor of shit and blood fills the room.

“Maybe you should’ve stayed home, huh?” I say to the corpse.

It doesn’t answer.

The nightlight at the end of the hall acts as a beacon; it leads me to Chelsea’s room. The door brushes against the carpet as it opens onto a view of Chelsea sprawled out on her bed. The covers are askew, tangled up in her legs, and her oversized T-shirt is bunched up over her waist. The diffused moonlight shines through the window and reflects off her pale, smooth skin. My eyes roam over her body, and I think it’s a damn shame it has to come to this. Then again, maybe not.

I nudge the bed and aim my pistol.

“Damn it, Mom,” Chelsea says sleepily. She rolls over; pushes herself up on her elbow. Her fist rubs her eyes awake.

She sees me. She sees the gun.

She starts to say something, but before she can, I fire.

The only sound is the sound of lead penetrating flesh and bone. She collapses; her face has an expression of eternal surprise.

I stand there a moment and take in what I’ve done. I expected to feel more, but I don’t really feel anything but relief. My job’s finished. I shrug and begin to whistle an old Tommy Dorsey tune as I leave the house, get in my car, and drive away.

I have no idea what I’m going to do now. I never really planned for after. Maybe I should have. I assume I’ll be caught and go to prison. Maybe I’ll get life, or even the death penalty. Best case scenario, I’ll get away scot-free.

Sometimes we do things for a purpose and damn the consequences. Whatever happens, happens, and I’ll deal with it when it does. Putting those bullets into her was totally worth it.

After all, the bitch ran over my dog.