Page 105 of Mommy

“Wait here.” I grind out just when Ezekiel stretches out a hand to open the passenger door.

Turning to me, a half grin splits his lips.

“We are not here to get a dog,” he observes, leaning back against the seat.

“No.”

“Then why the mask?”

I stare ahead, following the path at the side of the road.

“It’s personal.” I finally respond.

I don’t care if Ezekiel sees this. If he sees how deep I have spiralled, and how much of myself is out of control. I need him here as backup. Not because I think I can’t handle Ivy’s Ex, but because I’m not sure I can handle myself when I’m done.

“Who is it?”

Of course Ezekiel is not satisfied. I don’t think what I say actually matters. He would stick it out with me either way, I know that. Even if it were just a colleague who pissed me off at work, and I would be overreacting, Ezekiel wouldn’t back out.

He would never back out, when it mattered to me.

“He touched her.”

My voice is barely above a whisper.

“So?”

The glare I shoot in his direction is meant to kill him for asking, but sadly the asshole keeps breathing.

“Because… he thinks crying doesn’t mean no.”

Her excuse fed into my anger more than it should have. It still does, if I’m being completely honest.

Ivory’s boyfriend was supposed to heal the parts of her that were cracked, he was supposed to be a safe space for her to turn to, but… He made it all so much worse.

Instead of helping her accept and love herself, he belittled her and made sure she felt like she was worthless. And as if that wasn’t bad enough he had the audacity to blame her and claim her body as if that was his right?

Understanding flares in Ezekiel’s gaze.

Yeah. This isn’t jealousy. It’s revenge.

“Take all the time you need. I’ll keep watch,” Ez says with a nod.

Throwing him a half grunt in thanks I exit the car, ski mask covering my face and fists balled.

Jogging down the road, I find the right house, and the right apartment. And then, after picking the lock and a little bit of searching, I locate the right guy.

I immediately recognized the brown hair and the small scar on the side of his face. He could be handsome, I guess.

This time, when I pummel my fist into a face, I spare myself the excuses. This isn’t only happening because he deserves it, it’s happening because I deserve this.

If this was about him, I would explain to him why I’m here, but I won’t. I don’t care if he gets it, I just care about him paying the price.

If it was about him, I would’ve taken my gun and I would’ve shot him, but this is about me. And I need more than a clean death for what he did. I’ve been mending what this shithead broke so thoughtlessly, and for once I don’t need to pretend that I’m in control of my anger.

I don’t need to be in control at all.

If he dies under my fists tonight, what’s left of his pitiful soul punched into the pillows beneath him, then that’s just it. That’ll just be karma, working through me.