That’s right, asshole. How does it feel to be on the other side?
I was ready to whack him again when he went limp. His hands fell away and his face turned expressionless. I kicked him a few times, disappointed when he didn’t respond. My hands were shaking and there was a wild beast within, a beast that wanted to pound and pound and pound the fire extinguisher into his face until his eyes and nose and lips turned into a bloody, scrambled mess. I didn’t want him to go so easily. I wanted him to suffer.
I stopped, realizing that’s exactly what he’d said about my father:
I just want him to feel it. I want him to suffer.
I was caught up in the same cycle, feeding the same monster. I was turning into Damian, thinking like him, acting like him, becoming a slave to the same dark, powerful emotions. It scared the hell out of me because even knowing that, I still held the fire extinguisher high over my head, wanting nothing more than to bring it down on Damian, again and again.
Vengeance only begets more vengeance, more chaos, more darkness. Vengeance abducts us and imprisons us and mutilates us, and we suffer and suffer until we unravel its probing parasitic suckers from around us.
I took a deep, steadying breath and let go of the fire extinguisher. When I could think clearly, I searched Damian. I knew he had a phone, but it wasn’t on him. I ran to the deckhouse and started rifling through it. There was a steering station with panels for electronics and engine instrumentation, a chart table, seating area, and a mahogany entertainment center. I pulled all the drawers open. Roasted peanuts rolled around. Snacks, papers, maps, life jackets, a flashlight. No phone. I stared at the one drawer that was locked. It had to be there. It had to.
“Looking for this?” Damian staggered in, dangling the key before me.
Fuck.
He wasn’t dead. He’d passed out and I’d been too busy to notice when he’d come around. He was like a ten-headed hydra. You cut off one head and he just keeps coming. I should have flattened his face into a bloody pancake.
I fled out the other door. I was still faster than he was. He plodded after me, clutching his head. I climbed the ladder to the roof of the deckhouse. If I could launch the rubber dinghy off it, I could get to shore. It was secured to some kind of pole and bolted down with ropes and hooks. I started tugging on one of hooks. It was halfway unlatched when I saw Damian’s fingers grasp the top rung of the ladder. I tugged harder.
His head cleared the top.
I was almost there. But even if I managed to free the dinghy before Damian caught up to me, the cover was stretched tight across, and I had no idea how to start the engine.
Damian hoisted himself over the ladder.
I was out of time. I ran to the edge of the roof. We were closer to the piece of land jutting out in the horizon.
I was a strong swimmer.
I could make it.
I heard the thud of Damian’s foot as he climbed on the roof.
I took a deep breath and dived into the water.
The salt water set my severed finger on fire. I came up, gasping for air. Damian was looking down at me from the boat, an ominous shadow against the backdrop of white clouds—an unsteady ominous shadow. He was struggling to stay on his feet.
Good. I got him good.
I oriented myself with the horizon and started swimming towards land. The water was much colder than I anticipated, but it was calm and the adrenaline was pumping through my veins with each breath I took. I had gone a good distance before I looked back.