the spirit of vengeance: part two
[Authors Note: If you haven’t read the first part (or have and forgot what happened) then essentially what happens is Robbie Reyes and his girlfriend Isabella Contreas are out on a date when suddenly they’re approached by three men who are trying to rob them. Robbie thinks that he can take them on, but, ultimately finds out that he wasn’t strong enough to take on a twelve gauge shotgun. (Go figure). The men not only take the car, but also take Isabella as well. As he lays in the street dying he is approached by a strange man who claims to be the Devil, and he offers to make him a deal - become his ‘Rider’ and he’ll bestow him with the power he needs to save Isabella. Robbie agrees and…]
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Robbie Reyes was on the verge on the death. Past tense. Now, he was on the verge of… something else. To any onlookers, it would look like another life. As though he had made some sort of miraculous recovery. As though he cheated death.
But that’s not how Death works. Death cannot be cheated. But, he can be bargained with. And that’s exactly what Robbie had done. He made a deal with Death – a deal with the Devil – that had given him a second chance; a chance to save the woman he loved. And he wasn’t going to squander it. He would save her. But, once that task had been completed… what terror would lie in wait for him as the Devil’s Spirit of Vengeance?
The Spirit of Vengeance: Part 2
Robbie Reyes waited for something to happen. Anything at all that might hint at something other than the cold – or, perhaps, hot – embrace of his own demise.
The pain had now almost completely subsided, and the stars above him had become a hazy blur – as though he was peering through an out of focus camera lens. Still, he clung adamantly to life. Not for his own sake; no, he would gladly give his life (and his soul) if it meant that Isabella would survive. But he knew that, if he were to die here, then that would only serve to ensure that she would meet a fate worse than his own.
“They’ll take her and have their fun...”
Even as his body waned and his brains’ synapses crawled to a halt, the man’s – no, he was not a man; more a wolf in sheep’s clothing – voice echoed in his mind. Robbie tried to stop it; tried to push the sound of the wolf’s voice from his quickly fading consciousness, but he could not. The more he fought to shut the sound out, the louder it became.
“…and when they’re spent and she’s all worn out…”
Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!
Robbie knew what they would do and how they would do it; he knew how Isabella would feel during it all. The vile images played in what little remained of his conscious mind. They were not hazy like the night sky. No, they were clear; every desperate punch she threw, every scratch she left on their unmasked faces (because at this point there was no point in hiding who they were) in an attempt to keep them off of her; the way she screamed as two of them held her down, while the third unzipped his pants – a sick, triumphant smile forming at his lips; the way her face went blank as each of them had their way with her. It was all as clear as the wolf’s voice as he continued his verbal onslaught.
“…they’ll discard her with about as much decency as they have you...”
Please! No more!
Robbie could see her cold, naked body on the filthy ground of whatever abandoned building they had taken her too. Her once slender face now swollen from the bevy of blows the men – no, these were not men; more monsters in plain site – had laid across it; the bruises that had turned her caramel skin into a devastating mosaic of pain; and the crimson blood that had dried and caked against her blackened thighs. Robbie could see that her heart was still pumping, and her lungs still breathed in the stale air; but Isabella, the woman he loved, was no longer there.
She did not fight as they gathered her up and threw her in the trunk of Robbie’s car; nor did she scream through the duck tape as they unpacked her at the empty dock, near the river; she did not even register the feeling of the rope being tied around her ankles – the other side fastened to a cement block; and when they tossed her in the freezing water, he thought he could see the hint of a smile growing on her lips. His heart broke as she willingly opened her mouth and let the water invade her very being.
And then she was gone.
…is that what you want?”
No. NO. NO!
Something… snapped, inside of Robbie in that moment. To him, it sounded like the breaking of a bone or the smashing of glass.
But, in reality, it was the sound of his soul snapping.
“You’d be my Spirit of Vengeance.”
Yes. Yes, he would.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Isabella Contreas was, undoubtably, a strikingly beautiful woman. This was a fact that she was well aware of, much to her chagrin. While most women would kill for her looks, she found them to be more cumbersome than beneficial.
Yes, she could not deny the fact that she found it terribly amusing that, with no more effort than the batting of her naturally long eyelashes, she could get men (and women) to do any number of things for her – whether it was cutting the line to get into a club, or getting someone to courteously purchase a drink for her (though, she stopped that kind of behavior a few years ago, after she met Robbie.) Nor could she lie to herself about the joy she got from having so many options available to her simply based on the fact that her face and body were naturally contoured in a way that people seemed to find aesthetically pleasing; had she any desire, she could quit her job at a moments notice and promote any number of products half naked on her Instagram or Twitter.
But, despite the benefits, being beautiful came with it’s own share of problems, as well. The most precarious of which were the men. The way they’d stare at her with that lustful gaze; their tongues stroking their lips with freshly produced saliva - as if she were a gazelle, and they, hungry lions ready to pounce at a moments notice. When she was younger she enjoyed the attention; it instilled in her a warped sense of self worth. But as she got older it only served to make her uncomfortable. Especially when the men watching her with such salacious intrigue called her prima or sobrina.
Then there were the men who would want to do more than just look. Her first encounter with that came at the age of ten; years before her juvenescence blessed (or, perhaps, cursed) her with wide hips, full lips, and the long, mahogany tinged hair that had a natural, fiery glow to it when the light hit it in just the right way. The man was her Tío, Felipe, and he had always stared at her in a way that made her uncomfortable, though, at the time, she lacked the mental acuity (and sheer life experience) to place why it did. He would always ask her to sit on his lap, and kiss her on the cheek long enough for her to push him away and he would laugh and she would laugh but she never really felt like anything about it was all that funny.
His actions crescendoed during a family barbecue, when she accidentally spilled a drink on her shirt. It wasn’t a very large stain, but as she was making her way towards her Papá to have him help her, Tío Felipe stopped her and said that he could fix it; that his own daughter (not five months younger than Isabella) had some clothes in her room that she could wear. Isabella sensed that something about it felt wrong; that she should go to her Papá and have him help her instead. But she pushed the thought away – he was her Tío after all, there was nothing wrong with him wanting to help her get changed.
He led her into the empty house, through the kitchen, and up the stairs. But, before they reached the stop she heard her Papás deep, booming voice from behind them.
“What the fuck are you doing?” her Papá shouted in his native tongue. She had never heard him curse.
She turned around, suddenly filled with a mixture of confusion and fright. Was he yelling at her? Was he angry with her for having spilled the juice on her shirt?
She quickly blurted out in English, “Papá, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
She waited for a moment, but then came to the realization that he was not talking to her. His gaze was focused just to the right of her, at her Tío Felipe. She took note of the scowl that had etched itself onto her Papá’s face; with his hairless profile, coupled with all of his wrinkles, she was reminded of her best friends angry Sphynx cat that would always scratch her. She was worried that her Papá might pounce on Tío Felipe like that cat had so often pounced on her.
But why? What did he do?
She turned to her Tío but he stood frozen like a statue. She could only see the side of his face, but from what she could read, it seemed like he was afraid. Still, she was confused.
“Isabella, go outside,” her father spoke again, this time in English.
She wanted to question it, but knew that it was best not to say anything else. Whatever was transpiring here, she understood, was beyond her.
As she passed the threshold of the backdoor she heard the two yell at each other, though with them near the stair case, and the almost deafening sound of everyone laughing and playing and dancing in the backyard, it was difficult to make it all out.
“-son of a bitch. If you-”
Followed by more muffled noise.
“-I promise I wouldn’t-”
More muffled noise.
“-your fucking prima!”
“I wouldn’t-”
Then she heard a loud thump.
The thought of the cat pouncing on her flashed in her mind.
“I didn’t do-”
Another thump.
“I’m sor-”
Another thump.
And another.
Then came my Tío’s and Tía’s and Mamá.
Another thump.
A woman screaming.
Another thump.
The music suddenly stopping.
Another thump.
And another.
The sound of her father, speaking in his native tongue, clearer now that the background noise has seized, “that bastard was going to hurt my daughter!”
The rest of the day went by in a sort of haze. No one called the police or an ambulance, even though, by the look of her Papá’s hands he definitely needed one. She wondered what happened to her Tío, but after that day he left town and she never saw him again.
She remembered going to her Papá sometime after things subsided. He grabbed her and held her tight. The blood on his hands, another stain added to her shirt. He cried and it was the first time she had ever seen him do so. He held her for a long time. And then he whispered in his native tongue, “I promise that I’ll never let anyone hurt you.”
And he meant it.
The next few years of her life she spent training in Mr. Chen’s dojo – learning the nuanced art of Karate. It took time, but with her Papá pushing her (along with her naturally competitive nature) she became a black belt in less than three years – two years faster than most. And the skills she learned had proved valuable on more than one occasion.
This was one of those occasions.
As she sat in the back of Robbie Reyes’s…
Oh, God, he’s dead.
…Charger, pinned between two armed men, her mind raced to figure out how to use those skills to get out of her current situation and get back to…
Oh, God, he’s DEAD!
…him. Her mind lingered on the other reason that she hated being beautiful; (a reason she was now more than happy to take advantage of) the fact that people (but specifically, men) often, underestimated her.
It took many forms, such as with Danny Jenson, a boy in her middle school physical education class who thought it absolutely hilarious to ‘pants’ her when the teacher wasn’t looking. Well, Isabella did not find it funny. However, the swift blow to his stomach, followed by the crashing of her knee firmly against his cleft chin did manage to put a smile on her face. (It also managed to get her sent to the principals office – where the principal, Mr. Jones, claimed that she had overreacted and asked her to apologize to Danny for the attack. When she refused he claimed that she should act more lady like just before sentencing her to detention.)
As she got older she found that the world was filled with boys like Danny Jensen; boys in middle school and high school and college and after who thought it their God given right to hug, pinch, or grab her whenever they saw fit; boys who each learned their lesson the hard way, just as the Jensen boy did.
Just as these three boys would, she told herself as she shifted her eyes back and forth scanning them all.
They were all just carbon copies of Danny Jenson and Tío Felipe and every other boy who thought her weak and ineffectual; who thought she was a victim to be possessed for their own enjoyment; who thought her unable to protect herself from their domineering bravado. These boys thought themselves to be lions, and her, a gazelle; but that was not the case. She would show them just how untrue that was, if only she could keep her mind from wandering back to…
Oh GOD, he’s DEAD!
…Robbie Reyes’s bloody, half-dead body sprawled out against the cold, unfeeling concrete.
That would be the last time she ever saw him.
Her mind reluctantly held on to the memory of it. She memorized every aspect of him in that moment; from the navy Reebok shoes he wore that she had bought him a few months ago for his birthday; the black jeans that she often joked made his ass look fantastic (there was a gaping hole at the calf that had come from the initial shotgun shell; through it she could see gnawed flesh and shiny white bone all intermixed with the fabric); the once white polo shirt that was now drenched with (oh so much) blood (and a gaping hole of dull crimson and chunky meat she assumed might be his intestines or stomach or lungs or a mixture of it all); the unzipped black jacket that belonged to his father (she thought she could see pieces of it beneath all the mangled flesh); and his beautiful face (splotched with his own, slowly drying blood.)
She focused in on his face for a moment, taking note of how, even now, she found him so incredibly handsome. Robbie Reyes was, without a doubt, the love of her life. She loved him more than she even thought a human being could love another. He was not the other half of her soul, he was her soul, outside her body; and she, his. Their love was infinite and eternal; she believed that with absolutely certainty.
Had she looked just a foot to the right of him she would have seen the small, velvet box that had fallen out of his pocket during the scuffle. Within it held the promise that would solidify their love for one another for all eternity. Like their future, that promise, too, would go unfulfilled.
Instead her eyes wandered to his hand, taking note of the way his arm lifted ever so slightly, as if making one final, futile attempt to save her.
Her heart broke within her chest.
OH GOD, HE’S-
NO! She shouted from within herself.
She could not do this. She could not fall apart here and now. There would be a time when she had to deal with the death of Robbie Reyes, but that time was not now. Now she had to focus on living. Living because Robbie couldn’t anymore.
She had to live.
She resolved herself, taking into account the numerous possibly futures her actions might lead her to. She knew that it was much more likely that she would be killed before she could kill all of them, but what was her alternative? Let them bully her like Danny Jensen? Let them have their way with her the way Tío Felipe wanted?
NO.
And then, she took action.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The first thing that every human ever experiences is pain.
It is the reason why newborn babies come out of the womb hollering at the top of their tiny, barely developed, lungs – with tears streaming down their delicate, malleable faces.
They are in pain.
After what feels like eons in the Safe Place, they find themselves suddenly jettisoned out without warning. They struggle against the light of the Bad Place – using their enervated limbs to cling to walls that are working to push them out. If they could speak they would say…
no, mama, please. don’t let them take me, mama. no, mama, please.
…They try to contest the situation they now find themselves in – but the Bad Place is an unfeeling thing that cares not for the desires of such minuscule creatures.
This pilgrimage is inevitable.
And so the infant finds himself in the Bad Place. Gone is the warm, angelic embryonic fluid that had served to keep them safe for their entire existence; in its place is cold, stale (and often recycled) air and hands (often covered in vinyl) that poke and prod them relentlessly. Large fingers, or instruments, are forced into their mouths and their noses, making sure no trace of the Safe Place remains. They then drape the infants in fabrics that feel like sandpaper against their brand new, almost translucent skin. And then comes the final step, wherein they physically cut the infant away from the only source of sustenance they have ever know, ensuring that the Safe Place is nothing more than a distant, long forgotten memory.
Every human, without exception, is brought into this world experiencing the worst pain they will ever experience.
But then, they forget.
Robbie Reyes is about to remember that pain.
He will remember every painful thing that has ever happened to him.
The pain of being born; of when he was three months old and was dropped on the floor by his primo after he had had one too many drinks; of when he was only a year old and had taken his first steps, only to trip and fall and slice his forehead on the sharp edge of a table; of when he was four years old and fell off his bike, badly scrapping his knee; of when he was nine years old and Joshua Mendez and Saul Guerrero cornered him in the restroom and broke his nose after he refused to give them his lunch money; of when he was twelve years old and had made an egregious error while riding his skateboard down a hill that earned him three broken bones in his arm; of when he was sixteen and caught a football helmet to the side of his head after starting a fight with someone who had made fun of the fact that his Papá had died; of when he was eighteen and was shot in the arm during a drive by in his neighborhood; of when he was twenty two and was shot, point blank with a shotgun directly into his abdomen…
But it was more than just physical pain that he would feel.
As Robbie Reyes’s body lay sprawled out on the concrete sidewalk – moments away from his ‘rebirth’ – he felt every instance of emotional pain that had plagued him throughout his life.
Again, the pain of being born – of being unceremoniously ripped from his Mamá’s womb; of losing his dog (and very best friend) to cancer at the tender age of four; of being ripped from his Mamá again at the age of six – and not seeing her or his Papá again for two years as they made their way back to America for him; of his fifteenth birthday when his Papá died without warning on that Friday afternoon; of age nineteen, when, due to his own ignorance (and, perhaps, arrogance) he lost the house that his Papá had entrusted him with; of age twenty two, when he then lost the ’69 Charger that his Papá had left for him; of that same night, when he lost the only woman he ever truly loved…
The snapping of a soul, while sounding rather ridiculous, brings together all of the pain and individual has felt throughout their life and throws it at them not only simultaneously, but repeatedly.
It is unbearable.
But he will bear it.
As his soul tears itself in two (making room for the Devil’s guest) it releases an enormous amount of energy; enough to tear a body apart… or rebuild it.
Cells, endowed with demonic energy, multiply in a chaotic frenzy, forming flesh from seemingly nothing; the process is akin to watching a 3-D Printer work at a quarter light speed. The first organ to receive the unholy treatment was Robbie’s lungs, and through a biological imperative, his bodies’ immediate instinct is to use them. First to draw in the breathe that had been denied him for close to five minutes now – and secondly to use that same air to shriek as loud as humanely possible. Though, the sound that escaped his throat bore little semblance to anything human.
In fact, it was not a sound that could be heard by mortal ears; though, it could be felt. And every human within three miles could feel the energy Robbie was pushing out of his throat. It manifested itself in a number of ways; for the young girl skipping rope outside on the stoop of her apartment complex it manifested as a shiver down her spine that sent her running in to her mother; for the middle aged man who sat in his living room reading a fantasy novel, it caused him to check his surroundings – fearful that something sinister might have its sights set on him; for the newborn baby sleeping in his crib, it stirred him from his peaceful dreams of the Safe Place, causing tears to form at his eyes and wails to ring from his own throat.
Animals, which have always been more in tune with the unseen aspects of the world, could feel it too. Birds took flight, dogs barked ferociously, and smaller creatures, like rats and squirrels, took to their hiding spots – all fearful of the energy that was being emanated in the area.
Robbie was afraid too.
He was awake now. Fully conscious. (Perhaps too much for his own liking.)
While to any onlookers, it was clear that Robbie’s body was being rebuilt – to him, it felt like the opposite. He felt a fire forming in his abdomen – as though he had swallowed hellfire and it had now taken a foothold in what remained of his stomach. He could feel the fire spreading, working its way into his bloodstream, reducing his veins and arteries to ash. He could feel it working its way into his muscles – eating them away like hydrochloric acid. He swore that he could smell the singed, melting flesh.
His organs were next. He was aware that he had drawn in a breathe, but the cold air turned to steam in his esophagus, and by the time it reached his lungs it was literal fire. His eyes were closed but he was certain that when he let the air out he had released a fireball. He could feel the lining of his throat scorch and imagined blackened, calcine flesh – like a pig that had been left over the open fire for too long.
But all of this paled in comparison to the pain he felt in his heart – the hidden home of the human soul. While his body repaired itself – or, in his eyes, was reduced to ash – the Devil’s Guest was forcing himself into Robbie’s soul. To Robbie the pain was beyond excruciating – as if someone was clawing into his chest. But even more so, into his very being. An invisible creature, with ‘skin’ composed of actual hellfire, was working itself into him with unyielding perseverance. His soul fought against the intruder, but the human soul can only endure much before it must admit defeat…
And so, the Devil’s Guest had found itself a new home inside Robbie Reyes.
And just like that, the deed was done.
Robbie Reyes and The Rider were one.
https://www.comicsmostly.com/comics-mostly/2020/1/17/the-spirit-of-vengeance-part-two?rq=spirit
Basically only posting this here for @whistlingwindtree. Lol.
