Her Last Wish Was Revenge

Elena

The cold of the marble floor is the first thing I truly feel. It seeps through my silk dress, a deep, unforgiving chill that feels like death itself. The second is the coppery taste of blood in my mouth. My vision blurs at the edges, a dark vignette closing in on the grand foyer of my own home. Above me, the crystal chandelier sparkles, each shard of light a mocking star in my dimming universe.

They are talking. Their voices float down from the top of the grand staircase, distorted and distant, like I am hearing them from underwater.

"Is she still breathing?" Chloe asks. There is no concern in her voice. Only irritation. Like I am an errand she is waiting to be over.

"Not for long," Mark replies, his voice smooth and calm. The same voice that read wedding vows to me. The same voice that promised me forever. "It was a clean push. The fall did most of the work."

Chloe lets out a sigh. "Honestly, Mark, did you have to make such a mess? This is a vintage Persian rug. The blood will be impossible to get out."

My best friend. My maid of honor. She is worried about a rug.

"It will be our vintage Persian rug in a few days, darling," Mark says, the term of endearment he once used for me now a poisoned dart. "Don't worry about it. Once the estate is settled, we can burn the whole house down for all I care."

I try to move. I try to scream. Nothing happens. My body is a leaden cage, and my voice is trapped in my throat. All I can do is lie here, listening to the architects of my demise plan their future over my dying body.

"What about my shoes?" Chloe whines. "These are Louboutins. Look, there is a spatter right on the red sole. It’s ruined."

"I will buy you ten pairs," Mark promises, his voice getting closer as they descend the stairs. "A hundred. I will fill a closet with them, Chloe. Once her inheritance clears, we can have anything we want. Everything she had will be ours."

I can see them now. Their feet come into view first. His polished Italian leather shoes, her ridiculously high red soled heels. They stop a few feet from my head, looking down at me like I am roadkill.

"She looks so surprised," Chloe says with a little laugh, a sound I once thought was as lovely as wind chimes. It is nails on a chalkboard now. "Did you see her face when I told her? When I told her we had been together since college? I thought her eyes were going to pop out of her head."

"She was always so naive," Mark agrees. He nudges my shoulder with the toe of his expensive shoe. I feel the jolt through my entire body, a fresh wave of agony. "So trusting. ‘Mark, darling, could you help me with this clasp?’ Pathetic."

He mimics my voice. He makes it high and stupid. I want to claw his eyes out. The rage gives me a flicker of strength. My fingers twitch on the marble.

Chloe gasps. "Mark, she moved!"

"It is just nerves firing," he dismisses, his tone bored. "The doctor said it was an open and shut case. A tragic accident. Grieving husband. Devastated best friend. The police will eat it up. We have been playing our parts for years, what is one more performance?"

He crouches down beside me. His face fills my vision. The handsome face I fell in love with, now a grotesque mask of greed and contempt. He reaches out and touches the diamond necklace around my throat, the last gift he ever gave me.

"Such a shame," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the cold jewels. "You were almost the perfect wife, Elena. Beautiful, rich, and utterly clueless."

His words are the final blow. More painful than the impact against the floor. More final than the bleeding wound in my side. The betrayal is a poison that finishes what the fall started. My life was a lie. My love was a joke. My friendship was a tool.

The darkness at the edge of my vision consumes everything. Mark's face disappears. The sparkling chandelier vanishes. All that is left is the cold, the pain, and one single, burning thought.

A wish.

A prayer to a god I do not believe in.

Let me do it again.

Please. Just one more chance.

Then, nothing.

I sit up with a gasp that feels like it tears through my soul. A deep, ragged breath fills my lungs with air that smells of lavender and old books. Not the cloying, metallic scent of blood.

My hand flies to my stomach, expecting the wet stickiness, the roaring fire of pain. There is nothing. Just the soft, worn cotton of my pajamas. My body feels whole. Strong.

Panic claws at me. I look around wildly. This is my room. Not the cold, sterile master suite I shared with Mark, all charcoals and chrome. This is my childhood bedroom in my father’s house. The vintage concert posters are still on the wall. My stack of worn out novels sits on the nightstand. The air is warm with morning sun streaming through the window, not the dim, cold light of the foyer chandelier.

This makes no sense. I died. I felt my heart beat its last, desperate rhythm. I felt the final piece of warmth leave me on that cold, hard floor. Is this some kind of afterlife? A strangely specific heaven?

My eyes land on my phone, charging on the nightstand. My old phone. The rose gold one I replaced years ago.

With a hand that shakes so badly I can barely control it, I snatch it from its cradle. My thumb, pale and trembling, presses the home button. The screen flashes to life, blindingly bright.

And there it is. Under the time, in stark black digits, is the date.

October 12th.

Five years ago.

The morning of my engagement party.

The day Mark would slip a diamond on my finger and a noose around my neck. The day Chloe would stand beside me, beaming, calling me her sister while she slept with my fiancé. The day I sealed my own fate with a happy, oblivious, ‘yes’.

A wave of nausea crashes over me. I stumble out of bed and into the adjoining bathroom, my reflection leaping out from the mirror. It is me, but not me. My face is fuller, softer. There are no fine lines of stress around my eyes. There is no trace of the weary suspicion that had started to cloud my features in those final years. The girl in the mirror is twenty three years old, her face unlined by betrayal, her eyes bright with a naive love that makes me want to scream.

I grip the sides of the porcelain sink, my knuckles turning white. The trauma is so fresh it feels like I am still there, bleeding on the marble. I can almost feel the phantom ache in my side, hear their mocking laughter echoing in my ears.

But as I stare into my own younger eyes, something shifts. The shock, the horror, the gut wrenching grief… they begin to recede. They cool and harden into something else. Something solid and heavy in the pit of my stomach. It is a cold, clear, and beautiful rage.

They are alive. They are happy. And they have no idea what is coming.

But I do. I know everything. Every secret meeting. Every whispered lie. Every stolen kiss. I know about the bad investments Mark will advise me to make. I know about the friends Chloe will turn against me with her poisonous gossip. I know their entire playbook, from start to finish. They think they are holding all the cards, but I am the one who has seen the final hand.

I push myself away from the sink and walk back into the bedroom. I pick up the phone again, my hand perfectly steady this time. A text from Mark is on the screen.

*Can’t wait to make you my fiancée tonight. My whole life starts with you. I love you.*

The lie is so blatant, so sickening, it makes me laugh. It is a harsh, ugly sound in the quiet morning air.

That girl, the one who would have melted at this message, is gone. She died on the floor of her perfect home, listening to her husband and best friend complain about the blood on their shoes. I am what came back. I am his grieving widow, his devastated friend. I am the tragic accident just waiting to happen.

I look at my reflection in the dark screen of the phone. A slow smile spreads across my face. It feels alien. Dangerous. It does not reach my eyes.

“Alright, Mark. Alright, Chloe,” I whisper to the empty, sunlit room, my voice a low promise. “You wanted my life. This time, you can have it.”

This time, I will be the one pushing. And I will make sure they enjoy the fall.