Personal Log - 27 November 3306
27 Nov 2020Quriosyty
“When you begin a journey of revenge, start by digging two graves: one for your enemy, and one for yourself.”Everything will be fine, he'd told me. I didn't believe him, I doubt I ever will. But at the time, the tiny part of my mind which wasn't screaming in despair, silently and unconsciously thanked him for his kindness. You see I had no idea then that the man offering me this spontaneous and much needed comfort was the same man who had just murdered my parents. That revelation wasn't to come until much later. It wouldn't happen, in fact, until She came.
I was sixteen. I was about to discover the truth. Question is, can I survive it?
Hands don't kill people, minds do. Though Lucy Minneux pulled the trigger, to coin a phrase, Nicholas Baker had given the order. He had made it impossible for her to do otherwise; ordered her, compelled her, bullied her. Call it what you will, he had been the mind behind their murder, she had merely been his weapon of choice.
I'm not sure how or why she found me. It doesn't matter. Perhaps she wanted me to know or maybe she was seeking forgiveness. Perhaps it was a form of catharsis, a way for her to forgive herself, penitence for her part in the deaths. I'll never know, not now anyway. It's too late for that.
Regardless of her reasons, she came.
Lucy Minneux was a shell of a woman; pale, drawn and painfully thin. She fidgeted constantly the whole time she was there and would occasionally wrap her arms around herself, as though afraid she might come apart. She had arrived unannounced and, at first, my grandparents refused to let her see me. Somehow she had managed to convince them and I was eventually led to the living quarters by my grandmother who told me that she was an old friend of my parents. I entered the room nervously to find her sitting uncomfortably on the edge of a chair. My grandmother sat me opposite her before lowering herself slowly down next to me on the sofa. I could feel the tension in her body as she placed her hand reassuringly on my leg.
I watched with a growing feeling of concern and fascination as Lucy steeled herself to start speaking. In retrospect I can only marvel at the strength of will it must have taken for her to come to the house at all. But as she sat there, preparing to speak, that strength seemed spent and for a moment I wondered if she would ever begin. When she finally did the words poured out of her. It was as if she were unable to stop, afraid that if she did, she might never start again.
I remember being struck by the thought that this broken woman could never have been my parents' friend; there was something terribly wrong with her, something disfigured or lost, like a void deep inside her. Like she was hollow. When she had finished I realised what it was. Lucy Minneux had indeed lost something. Herself.
I said nothing. Not the whole time. I asked no questions, made no comments and when she finally stood to leave I didn't even look at her when she thanked me for listening and made her goodbyes. Her last words to me, barely audible as my grandmother led her out of the room were, I'm sorry.
I wasn't. She had told me the truth about my parents' death but more importantly she had given me the name of their murderer. And though it took me a while to discover it was the man who had sat opposite me on the transport, I had already decided what I would do when I caught up with him.
Lucy Minneux's sorrow and self-loathing had consumed her because she had allowed it to. If she'd had any anger toward Nicholas Baker she had buried it long ago in a grave she ought to have dug for his corpse. I wouldn't make the same mistake. I intended to dig two holes, one for his body and one for my sorrow. When they are filled, perhaps I might find some peace.