Categories > Original > Drama > Not-So-Sweet Revenge
Not-So-Sweet Revenge
1 Reviews(Rated R for violence) Martin Vatterot always took revenge. If someone hurt him, they'd get hurt back; if someone annoyed him, they'd get annoyed back; if someone made him mad, he would make the...
I'm a vengeful person, I admit. I really am. If anyone ever does anything to hurt me, they can be sure they'll get hurt back. If anyone annoys me, they'll get annoyed back. I always have to seek revenge. I can't help it; I need to get back.
The strength of my revenge depends upon why I'm doing it; the more severe the act that provoked me, the more severe my revenge is. My revenge is equal in strength to whatever it is that provoked me. Usually, the most amount of trouble this gets me in at school is detention (I've only been suspended once, and it was only for three days; I've never been threatened with expulsion, funnily enough), and with my parents, the worst I've had is grounding and the loss of computer, cell phone, and/or TV privileges. Because my best friend, Derek Maretti, is often in detention with me, it isn't so bad, and I've never been grounded for more than two months, even for really bad things, so you could say that I haven't really suffered from my punishments.
I never really thought I would be in a situation where I would want to take revenge so severe it would end me in jail. My friends know me as a troublemaker, but they also know that I know not to cross the line of something that could get me in to any sort of legal trouble. I never thought that I would do something that would land me in jail; I never even dreamed I would. But of course, people change, and we all surprise ourselves every day.
Neither Derek nor I fit in particularly well. Derek had a tall, purple Mohawk, and I had a lot of acne and was on the round side. Even so, we never minded the jocks- not even Brett Warner, Ridgewood High School varsity football captain, the jockiest and cockiest of them all. Brett did prefer "loser" to Derek Maretti and Martin Vatterot (that's me), but he never actually insulted us or did anything to make me want revenge.
I never would've thought Brett would do something that would make me want to take revenge on him. I never would've thought I would've had reason to want revenge on him. And never, ever, not even in a million years, would I think Brett would do something so bad that the idea of wanting to kill him would even pop in to my head.
Then again, things that I never would've thought would happen do have a tendency to happen in some way.
****
On a Friday night in June, Derek and I were celebrating summer vacation and the end of eleventh grade at a party at Sarah Gabriel's house. Sarah had a humungous house and, on the Friday after the last day of school of every year, starting in sixth grade, hosted an end-of-the-year party for the entire grade. That sounds like a lot, but Ridgewood High School was significantly smaller than most public schools (only 150 kids in each grade, 600 in all), because Ridgewood, Delaware, was significantly smaller than most towns. Alcohol didn't appear until the high school parties, though. I remember during the party at the end of ninth grade, alcohol was found in odd hiding places and small quantities; in tenth grade, it was more readily available; in eleventh grade, alcohol was everywhere, and almost everyone there was drunk (except for me and Derek, who doesn't drink); I did have a drink or two that night, but it wasn't enough to get drunk. Still, I knew better than to take chances and drive myself home, so my parents had agreed beforehand that they'd pick me up after the party.
But Brett Warner never seemed to have received the lecture on how stupid and dangerous it is to drive drunk, nor did he seem to have seen the videos they showed us in Driver's Ed sophomore year about driving drunk. He was drinking all night, and when the party was over well after midnight, he stumbled into his own car, a cherry-red convertible, which was parked in Sarah's driveway. My parents weren't there to pick me up yet; I called them, and they were on their way, but I knew it would take them at least ten or fifteen minutes. I watched as Derek crossed the street and walked about 100 yards to get to his car, an old black sedan.
That street- Georgia Avenue, located not in Georgia but in Delaware- was pretty wide; there were four lanes, rather a lot for a residential street. At the same time Derek crossed the street, Brett pulled his car out of the driveway. Brett's driving showed that he was very clearly drunk. He wasn't driving anywhere near straight, and his movements were jerky. Derek got in his car and drove down the street, but before he had driven even 30 feet, Brett crashed in to him.
I rushed over to the two cars, a sickening feeling in my stomach that told me something was really, really wrong. When I saw the two cars, I was shocked; I don't think I've ever seen a car that was wrecked as badly as Derek's and Brett's were. Derek's was worse, though; he was surely injured terribly. I had a strange feeling that he wasn't breathing.
"Is he breathing?" Came a voice. I turned around to see Brett.
"I'm not sure." I replied. Only a second later did it hit me that Brett was obviously not gravely injured (from the looks of it, all he had were a few cuts and scrapes; his wrist was swollen, so maybe that got broken, but that was the extent of the injuries), but I knew that Derek must have been severely hurt. His car was smashed up, and I knew there was no chance of me being able to open the door to take a look at him, so I waited there, scared to death that my best friend could be fatally injured.
I took out my cell phone and called 911 to ask for an ambulance because I had just witnessed a car accident (with a drunk driver, I added), which arrived hardly three minutes later. A fire truck and police car came too; the fire truck came with the Jaws of Life to hopefully pry Derek from his car and the police came car to arrest Brett.
The firemen pried Derek out of the car in five minutes. I was relieved when I finally saw the paramedics put him on the stretcher to get him into the ambulance, but when I saw that he was covered in blood and had stopped breathing (or if he was breathing, his breaths were too shallow for me to see), /I/almost stopped breathing.
****
I went home after that, even though I wanted to go to the hospital with Derek; the paramedics told me to go home (they knew something was gravely wrong with him). I hardly slept that night; I probably got a total of about two hours of sleep, spread out over seven or eight hours.
I was woken up at 8:30 by the sound of the phone ringing in the kitchen, but I figured someone else would be up to get it, so I tried to go back to sleep. As I was trying to fall back asleep, I heard my mom talking on the telephone but I couldn't hear what she was saying. Moments later I heard her footsteps coming up the stairs, and she opened the door and said, "Martin, Mrs. Maretti is on the phone for you." I sat up and took the phone from my mom.
.
"Hello?" I said, trying not to sound as tired as I felt.
"Hi, Martin. You know Derek was in a car accident last night."
"Yeah, I saw it happen. Is he okay?"
"He didn't make it." Mrs. Maretti started crying. "The doctors said he lost so much blood and had so many injuries they were surprised he even made it alive to the hospital, but he- he died with Robert and I right there." Robert was Derek's father.
"What time did it happen?" I asked.
"4:28 this morning." Mrs. Maretti told me. She cleared her throat "I waited until now to call because I didn't want to wake you up." She said, her voice much calmer, the sobbing gone. "I called my parents and Robert's father a few hours ago, but you're the first person I've told since then. You were his best friend."
I was at a loss of words. I had no clue what to say, so after a few minutes of silence broken only by Mrs. Maretti's sniffling, I made up some excuse about having to go do "work" (I didn't specify what type of "work") and hung up.
The rest of that day wasn't pleasant. I was supposed to clean out the attic, but I couldn't. I was angry, and kept throwing things; after I broke a lamp and a vase, my mom let me off the hook. Unfortunately, I had nothing else to do, so I spent twelve hours thinking about Derek. Derek was /dead/. He was gone. I would never speak to him again. I was so unbelievably angry with Brett. Driving drunk is a stupid thing, and I would be furious if Brett had killed /anyone/, but my best friend? I wouldn't have thought he'd ever do that.
I needed to get back at Brett; I just had to. I couldn't not take revenge. I had to get back at Brett, and I knew what I had to do. It's not something I would have normally done, but strong emotions (anger, in my case) can mess with your thinking. And sometimes, you have to fight fire with fire.
****
So at 8:50 that night, I remembered something I had seen in the closet in the attic. It was a box in which I knew that there was a gun. I opened the closet and, luckily enough, there was a key next to the box. I opened the box and took out the gun. Quietly and carefully, I walked downstairs, went outside, got in my car, and drove to Brett's house.
When I reached Brett's house, the lights were off. But all of a sudden, I saw a car drive up the driveway. It was a black SUV, which I figured to be his parents'. Brett got out of the car.
"Um, hi." He said. "What are you doing here?" He asked.
"Payback." I told him.
Brett seemed calm and not particularly worried, until he noticed the gun held in my right hand.
"W- what's that thing for?" Brett asked, his voice shaking, pointing to the gun. I raised the gun and pointed it at him. "W- what- what are you doing, man?" He whimpered.
"You killed my best friend."
"I didn't mean to, dude! I drove drunk, I wouldn't have done it if I was sober." Brett was still whimpering. "Please don't kill me," he added.
"You killed my best friend." I repeated. "Now I'm going to kill you." I put the gun up to his head.
"Don't kill me, man! I'm sorry! I didn't want to kill Derek, I didn't mean to do it!" Brett Warner, seven inches taller, heavier, and much stronger than me, was terrified of me. Truth be told, I was terrified of myself too.
"When someone kills my best friend, that someone is going to get killed." I said. "Don't think you're getting away with that."
"Please, don't do this! Don't do this, I'm begging you!" Brett said.
Right when Brett finished his sentence, I pulled the trigger. He dropped down to his knees, and then on to his back, his eyes and mouth wide open, looking shocked and terrified.
What did I just do?
****
And then, all of a sudden, I woke up in a cold sweat. My heart pounding, I sat up. I was in my bed, not holding a gun up to Brett Warner's forehead, and it was 9:00 AM, not PM, and according to my watch, it was Thursday, June 14th, so Sarah's party hadn't even have happened yet- it would be the next day.
I realized that it didn't actually happen after a few seconds, because in addition to Sarah's party not having happened yet, my dad would never be stupid enough to leave the key to the box with the gun in it in the same closet as the gun itself. And also, I realized that Brett wouldn't have been driving back to his house that night, because he would've been in jail.
My mind was racing. How had I dreamed such a thing? How had my mind thought of something like that? And why was the dream so /real/? And why, even in my dreams, would I want to murder Brett Warner? I know things happen in dreams that wouldn't normally happen in real life, but I always thought it meant pigs would fly, or something like that.
"Marty?" Someone said. "You okay?" Then the person stood up and walked over. It was /Derek/.
I blinked. By then, I had realized it was just a dream, and that Derek wasn't really dead, but actually seeing him was still weird.
"I'm fine."
"You sure?" He asked. "You were thrashing around in your bed, screaming something about killing Brett Warner..."
"Oh, yeah, I just had a really bad dream." I shook my head to try to get the thoughts out of it.
"You dreamed you were gonna kill Brett? Why?" Revenge, that's why.
"I don't even know." I admitted honestly.
"Whatever, I'm gonna go brush my teeth and take a shower." Derek said, and went to the bathroom.
****
I stayed in my bed for half an hour- until Derek came back from his shower. The whole time, I was thinking about the dream. Particularly, I was thinking about the revenge I had taken on Brett.
In the dream, I wanted revenge on Brett, and I wanted it badly. I thought the only way to get back at Brett would be to do to him what he did to Derek, but man, was I wrong.
I also realized something else. I realized that no matter how much I wanted to take revenge, and no matter how sweet revenge might seem, it's not always appropriate. Sugar is good in small quantities, but too much will give you cavities and land you a trip to the dentist's office; revenge is good in small quantities, but too much will give you regret and might land you a trip to jail.
Suddenly, revenge no longer seemed so sweet.
A/N- I hope you enjoyed the story. I wrote it for my English class, not that you care... :P
So, yeah, well, thanks for reading! Please review.
The strength of my revenge depends upon why I'm doing it; the more severe the act that provoked me, the more severe my revenge is. My revenge is equal in strength to whatever it is that provoked me. Usually, the most amount of trouble this gets me in at school is detention (I've only been suspended once, and it was only for three days; I've never been threatened with expulsion, funnily enough), and with my parents, the worst I've had is grounding and the loss of computer, cell phone, and/or TV privileges. Because my best friend, Derek Maretti, is often in detention with me, it isn't so bad, and I've never been grounded for more than two months, even for really bad things, so you could say that I haven't really suffered from my punishments.
I never really thought I would be in a situation where I would want to take revenge so severe it would end me in jail. My friends know me as a troublemaker, but they also know that I know not to cross the line of something that could get me in to any sort of legal trouble. I never thought that I would do something that would land me in jail; I never even dreamed I would. But of course, people change, and we all surprise ourselves every day.
Neither Derek nor I fit in particularly well. Derek had a tall, purple Mohawk, and I had a lot of acne and was on the round side. Even so, we never minded the jocks- not even Brett Warner, Ridgewood High School varsity football captain, the jockiest and cockiest of them all. Brett did prefer "loser" to Derek Maretti and Martin Vatterot (that's me), but he never actually insulted us or did anything to make me want revenge.
I never would've thought Brett would do something that would make me want to take revenge on him. I never would've thought I would've had reason to want revenge on him. And never, ever, not even in a million years, would I think Brett would do something so bad that the idea of wanting to kill him would even pop in to my head.
Then again, things that I never would've thought would happen do have a tendency to happen in some way.
****
On a Friday night in June, Derek and I were celebrating summer vacation and the end of eleventh grade at a party at Sarah Gabriel's house. Sarah had a humungous house and, on the Friday after the last day of school of every year, starting in sixth grade, hosted an end-of-the-year party for the entire grade. That sounds like a lot, but Ridgewood High School was significantly smaller than most public schools (only 150 kids in each grade, 600 in all), because Ridgewood, Delaware, was significantly smaller than most towns. Alcohol didn't appear until the high school parties, though. I remember during the party at the end of ninth grade, alcohol was found in odd hiding places and small quantities; in tenth grade, it was more readily available; in eleventh grade, alcohol was everywhere, and almost everyone there was drunk (except for me and Derek, who doesn't drink); I did have a drink or two that night, but it wasn't enough to get drunk. Still, I knew better than to take chances and drive myself home, so my parents had agreed beforehand that they'd pick me up after the party.
But Brett Warner never seemed to have received the lecture on how stupid and dangerous it is to drive drunk, nor did he seem to have seen the videos they showed us in Driver's Ed sophomore year about driving drunk. He was drinking all night, and when the party was over well after midnight, he stumbled into his own car, a cherry-red convertible, which was parked in Sarah's driveway. My parents weren't there to pick me up yet; I called them, and they were on their way, but I knew it would take them at least ten or fifteen minutes. I watched as Derek crossed the street and walked about 100 yards to get to his car, an old black sedan.
That street- Georgia Avenue, located not in Georgia but in Delaware- was pretty wide; there were four lanes, rather a lot for a residential street. At the same time Derek crossed the street, Brett pulled his car out of the driveway. Brett's driving showed that he was very clearly drunk. He wasn't driving anywhere near straight, and his movements were jerky. Derek got in his car and drove down the street, but before he had driven even 30 feet, Brett crashed in to him.
I rushed over to the two cars, a sickening feeling in my stomach that told me something was really, really wrong. When I saw the two cars, I was shocked; I don't think I've ever seen a car that was wrecked as badly as Derek's and Brett's were. Derek's was worse, though; he was surely injured terribly. I had a strange feeling that he wasn't breathing.
"Is he breathing?" Came a voice. I turned around to see Brett.
"I'm not sure." I replied. Only a second later did it hit me that Brett was obviously not gravely injured (from the looks of it, all he had were a few cuts and scrapes; his wrist was swollen, so maybe that got broken, but that was the extent of the injuries), but I knew that Derek must have been severely hurt. His car was smashed up, and I knew there was no chance of me being able to open the door to take a look at him, so I waited there, scared to death that my best friend could be fatally injured.
I took out my cell phone and called 911 to ask for an ambulance because I had just witnessed a car accident (with a drunk driver, I added), which arrived hardly three minutes later. A fire truck and police car came too; the fire truck came with the Jaws of Life to hopefully pry Derek from his car and the police came car to arrest Brett.
The firemen pried Derek out of the car in five minutes. I was relieved when I finally saw the paramedics put him on the stretcher to get him into the ambulance, but when I saw that he was covered in blood and had stopped breathing (or if he was breathing, his breaths were too shallow for me to see), /I/almost stopped breathing.
****
I went home after that, even though I wanted to go to the hospital with Derek; the paramedics told me to go home (they knew something was gravely wrong with him). I hardly slept that night; I probably got a total of about two hours of sleep, spread out over seven or eight hours.
I was woken up at 8:30 by the sound of the phone ringing in the kitchen, but I figured someone else would be up to get it, so I tried to go back to sleep. As I was trying to fall back asleep, I heard my mom talking on the telephone but I couldn't hear what she was saying. Moments later I heard her footsteps coming up the stairs, and she opened the door and said, "Martin, Mrs. Maretti is on the phone for you." I sat up and took the phone from my mom.
.
"Hello?" I said, trying not to sound as tired as I felt.
"Hi, Martin. You know Derek was in a car accident last night."
"Yeah, I saw it happen. Is he okay?"
"He didn't make it." Mrs. Maretti started crying. "The doctors said he lost so much blood and had so many injuries they were surprised he even made it alive to the hospital, but he- he died with Robert and I right there." Robert was Derek's father.
"What time did it happen?" I asked.
"4:28 this morning." Mrs. Maretti told me. She cleared her throat "I waited until now to call because I didn't want to wake you up." She said, her voice much calmer, the sobbing gone. "I called my parents and Robert's father a few hours ago, but you're the first person I've told since then. You were his best friend."
I was at a loss of words. I had no clue what to say, so after a few minutes of silence broken only by Mrs. Maretti's sniffling, I made up some excuse about having to go do "work" (I didn't specify what type of "work") and hung up.
The rest of that day wasn't pleasant. I was supposed to clean out the attic, but I couldn't. I was angry, and kept throwing things; after I broke a lamp and a vase, my mom let me off the hook. Unfortunately, I had nothing else to do, so I spent twelve hours thinking about Derek. Derek was /dead/. He was gone. I would never speak to him again. I was so unbelievably angry with Brett. Driving drunk is a stupid thing, and I would be furious if Brett had killed /anyone/, but my best friend? I wouldn't have thought he'd ever do that.
I needed to get back at Brett; I just had to. I couldn't not take revenge. I had to get back at Brett, and I knew what I had to do. It's not something I would have normally done, but strong emotions (anger, in my case) can mess with your thinking. And sometimes, you have to fight fire with fire.
****
So at 8:50 that night, I remembered something I had seen in the closet in the attic. It was a box in which I knew that there was a gun. I opened the closet and, luckily enough, there was a key next to the box. I opened the box and took out the gun. Quietly and carefully, I walked downstairs, went outside, got in my car, and drove to Brett's house.
When I reached Brett's house, the lights were off. But all of a sudden, I saw a car drive up the driveway. It was a black SUV, which I figured to be his parents'. Brett got out of the car.
"Um, hi." He said. "What are you doing here?" He asked.
"Payback." I told him.
Brett seemed calm and not particularly worried, until he noticed the gun held in my right hand.
"W- what's that thing for?" Brett asked, his voice shaking, pointing to the gun. I raised the gun and pointed it at him. "W- what- what are you doing, man?" He whimpered.
"You killed my best friend."
"I didn't mean to, dude! I drove drunk, I wouldn't have done it if I was sober." Brett was still whimpering. "Please don't kill me," he added.
"You killed my best friend." I repeated. "Now I'm going to kill you." I put the gun up to his head.
"Don't kill me, man! I'm sorry! I didn't want to kill Derek, I didn't mean to do it!" Brett Warner, seven inches taller, heavier, and much stronger than me, was terrified of me. Truth be told, I was terrified of myself too.
"When someone kills my best friend, that someone is going to get killed." I said. "Don't think you're getting away with that."
"Please, don't do this! Don't do this, I'm begging you!" Brett said.
Right when Brett finished his sentence, I pulled the trigger. He dropped down to his knees, and then on to his back, his eyes and mouth wide open, looking shocked and terrified.
What did I just do?
****
And then, all of a sudden, I woke up in a cold sweat. My heart pounding, I sat up. I was in my bed, not holding a gun up to Brett Warner's forehead, and it was 9:00 AM, not PM, and according to my watch, it was Thursday, June 14th, so Sarah's party hadn't even have happened yet- it would be the next day.
I realized that it didn't actually happen after a few seconds, because in addition to Sarah's party not having happened yet, my dad would never be stupid enough to leave the key to the box with the gun in it in the same closet as the gun itself. And also, I realized that Brett wouldn't have been driving back to his house that night, because he would've been in jail.
My mind was racing. How had I dreamed such a thing? How had my mind thought of something like that? And why was the dream so /real/? And why, even in my dreams, would I want to murder Brett Warner? I know things happen in dreams that wouldn't normally happen in real life, but I always thought it meant pigs would fly, or something like that.
"Marty?" Someone said. "You okay?" Then the person stood up and walked over. It was /Derek/.
I blinked. By then, I had realized it was just a dream, and that Derek wasn't really dead, but actually seeing him was still weird.
"I'm fine."
"You sure?" He asked. "You were thrashing around in your bed, screaming something about killing Brett Warner..."
"Oh, yeah, I just had a really bad dream." I shook my head to try to get the thoughts out of it.
"You dreamed you were gonna kill Brett? Why?" Revenge, that's why.
"I don't even know." I admitted honestly.
"Whatever, I'm gonna go brush my teeth and take a shower." Derek said, and went to the bathroom.
****
I stayed in my bed for half an hour- until Derek came back from his shower. The whole time, I was thinking about the dream. Particularly, I was thinking about the revenge I had taken on Brett.
In the dream, I wanted revenge on Brett, and I wanted it badly. I thought the only way to get back at Brett would be to do to him what he did to Derek, but man, was I wrong.
I also realized something else. I realized that no matter how much I wanted to take revenge, and no matter how sweet revenge might seem, it's not always appropriate. Sugar is good in small quantities, but too much will give you cavities and land you a trip to the dentist's office; revenge is good in small quantities, but too much will give you regret and might land you a trip to jail.
Suddenly, revenge no longer seemed so sweet.
A/N- I hope you enjoyed the story. I wrote it for my English class, not that you care... :P
So, yeah, well, thanks for reading! Please review.
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