I chased after him, begging like a helpless maid.
"Please, Daddy, please forgive me. I'll never find anyone as dear as you," I lied, voice trembling with faked practiced humility.
"You knew that and you still stole my money?" he barked, hauling me up the stairs by the wrist.
"I'll never do it again!" I cried, the words soft and frantic. I must have been an actress in my previous life .
"Get the hell out of my house!" he spat, and before I could dodge, his wooden boot like foot crashed into my stomach. I flew back and slammed against my room door.That was painful! I stifled a moan.
"Now, stand up and get your luggage," he commanded. "Leave my house!" he growled, each stressed syllable a stone.
He shoved my bags into my arms and ordered his security dogs to drive me out. They obeyed without curiosity, teeth and cold eyes doing his bidding. I stepped into the night, pulled my dress straight, and walked past the gate to the taxi I'd booked. It was waiting like a quiet accomplice.
The place I'd rented wasn't a home so much as a hiding spot — a single room over a shop in the roughest part of town. It was small, shabby, and smelled faintly of oil and ancientness; the kind of place people assumed no one would miss. Outside, life bared itself in blunt, humiliating ways: men leaning on walls, couples entangled on doorsteps, children playing amid trash. It was a ghetto in everyone's map, and that's why I chose it. A home where I would be invisible.
I shut the door, dropped my bags, and sat hard on the cracked mattress. My breath came ragged. For a moment I let myself feel the ache. The bruise at my ribs, the sting in my head, and the small, sweet sound of relief that came with being away. Then my mind moved, sharp and cold, back to the plan. He had humiliated me; he had hurt others and he even dare to kick me. That kicked out a devilish smile off my bruise lips. Now the map in my head unfurled again: routes, alibis, timing. The shabby room felt like a cradle for a long, careful revenge.
I knew I needed to be patient. I timed footsteps, mapped shadows, and learned the rhythm of their little world. The dogs were the easiest puzzle to unfazed. I gave them poisons already. They were innocent at the second thought so I gave them some pills that dull their cells.
I marked Eric's patterns with a pencil on a torn-out calendar. He left at noon everyday for only God knows where — sometimes he came back late and sullen, sometimes not at all.
The foster father read his paper in the mornings, smoked by the window at three, and locked his study after midnight. He ate in the kitchen at eight sharp, watched television in the living room at ten, He would be in bed by 11 and always with a bottle of wine. I assumed he would still be like that till 12.That would be the days he wasn't travelling.
I learned where lights stayed on late and where darkness swallowed whole rooms. Each little discovery tightened the web. . I learned that patience could be a weapon. And with every night, the plan in my head sharpened until it felt less like fantasy and more like inevitability after hours of rehearsing everyday.
I needed one last look. A day before the end, just to be sure nothing had changed. The house sat the same. An undescribable joy eroded my heart for having an untouched stage. He would be off guard tomorrow, I told myself, and I could taste the ease of it.
On D-day I let myself a small comfort: a café a block away, a chipped cup of coffee, and the cool wind on my neck sweeping my long hair here and there. I watched the house from a distance through the vapour of my cup and my head recorded every details Eric was out. The dogs slept where they always slept. The compound hummed with the same vibes I had mapped out.
I'd spent nights thinking of ways to untangle the little threads that might point back to me but I was just too perfect. After I drained the coffee, I stood and moved as if I had nowhere to be. Light was my enemy; darkness would be my ally.
I crossed the yard where the guards rarely bothered and slipped along shadowed walls, careful to make myself look like nothing more than a passing shape. I reached the power box and then,in silence. I made it die. Not with clumsy force but with a careful touch. That change was my gift.
Footsteps came then deliberate, heavy.A thick one and a thin voice were, arguing about the outage. I crouched behind the low wall. They spoke with the confidence of men who think their world still belongs to them. I never planned to kill any of them. I deal with sinners.
"There's nothing wrong with this," the deeper voice said.
"Maybe it's not just here," the other replied.
They fumbled. I slipped inside through the back, invisible where light would have given me away.Every step I took was measured, like a rehearsed line.
The kitchen door sighed open and there he was. My foster father coming out with a tray of snacks, a towel over one shoulder, smiling that small, private smile he kept for himself. He looked ordinary: humane and unguarded.
He placed the tray on the coffee table, sat, and reached for the remote. The television flickered to life despite my sabotage — a weak glow filling the living room — and a football match came on, the commentators' voices bright and far away. He settled as if nothing had happened. Guess he was well prepared than I thought.
I wanted to strike then, but the caution that had kept me alive these months held me back. I could not risk a shout, a stumble, a stray footstep that would call a chorus from the compound and ruin everything.
So I stood in the dark and rehearsed the final move in my head.The television roared on, banal commentary filling the air like a mockery. He munched, oblivious. I centered the knife in my palm until its cool weight erased the tremor in my fingers.
I inhaled, slow, and began to walk towards him