“And to the charge of murder in the first degree, how do you plea,” the judge asked.

“Guilty,” I said.

My mother wept.  For once her tears were real, not a show for the fake people she surrounded herself with.  The judge said something about custody and sentencing, but I didn’t hear him because I was reveling in the sound of my mother’s grief.  I smiled as the guard handcuffed me.

“Why,” my mother whispered.  “You didn’t do this.”

That was as close as she would come to admitting I’d confessed to her crime.  “It’s the essence of revenge,” I said.  Her mouth opened in a pained O, comprehension dawning as I was led away.

The guard escorted me down a hallway to an elevator.  When the doors closed he asked, “What did you mean, the essence of revenge?”

“My father told me the essence of revenge is not to take from someone what they took from you.  It’s taking from them what’s most important to them.”

The guard’s lips set in a grim line at the reference to my father. “And what your father valued most was his life?”

“No,” I replied.  “What my mother values most is me.”

*

Ericka Kahler has lived in eight states, all of them progressively further north. At this rate her nursing home will be above the Arctic Circle, even though she really HATES snow.  She has worked in fields ranging from radio to construction to law to finance. Once she escaped the cult she began writing and editing, and now you can find her work on Amazon.com and BasementStories.org