Redress

“It was an accident. He was jogging late at night, you glanced at a text while driving. You panic, dump the body in a nearby lake, go home and try to forget. You venture out for some much needed coffee, only to stop in shock. The barista is the jogger and he recognizes you.” -u/Ridtom, original post here.

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I stepped back from the counter. My hand fell limply to my side, coins slipping between my fingers and dropping in a shower of ringing metal. I couldn’t form a full sentence, reduced instead to stuttered fragments.

“I… you… but you’re…” I gaped, my mind scrabbling to come to terms with the contradiction. A twin brother, maybe? But no, I recognized that tattoo. I recognized the scar, too, running through it at a jagged angle. I’d stared at it for long enough while I was dragging him. It had been deep last night, showing off shattered pieces of his spine; now it was no more than a thin white line running along his neck.

He smiled back at me. It was a cold smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. He glanced down at the floor, where my change was rolling around my feet.

“I think you dropped your change, sir. Why don’t you pick it up, and go choose a table? I’ll bring your drink out to you when it’s ready.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a command. I could tell from the ways his eyes pierced into me—there was no running from this. I grubbed about on the floor, and stumbled off to collapse into a seat.

I think that waiting for him was the worst. I watched as he helped the next few customers in line, taking orders and working the register as if I hadn’t all but decapitated him less than twelve hours ago. He glanced in my direction every few minutes, checking that I was still here. His expression was warm and friendly with everyone else, but when he turned to look at me, I could feel the ice.

I wondered if it had had anything to do with the lake. It had been so cold last night. What had he been wearing? A dark jacket, zipped up. Black sweat pants. Nothing reflective, anyway. It wouldn’t have kept him warm under the water.

Eventually, he did come out, setting a steaming cup of coffee in front of me. I couldn’t meet his gaze—I just murmured a quick thanks and tried to look as small as possible. It didn’t work. He sat down opposite from me, and he waited.

I didn’t take long to break. I looked up, and he was glaring at me, hands folded calmly in front of him. He nodded at my coffee without breaking his stare.

“Drink. You look like you need it.”

I reached for the cup, then hesitated. His face twisted to a scowl.

“It’s safe. I don’t hurt people.”

He could read me like a freakin’ book.

I took a sip, my hands shaking. It was good, if a bit bitter. I didn’t dare get up to grab sugar or cream.”

“So,” he said, “Let’s not beat around the bush. You killed me last night.”

I looked around. Was he not worried that people would hear him? Nobody really seemed to be close by, or to be listening in, but still. I gave him a short, nervous nod.

“Do you have anything to say about that?” He looked at me, expectantly.

“I’m… I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. It was an accident, and I panicked, and… I really don’t know what else to say.”

He was still glaring at me.

“Well. Fortunately for you, it didn’t stick. I’m back.”

I blinked at him. “Your neck was broken. You didn’t have a pulse. I…I checked. I wanted to call an ambulance, but you were just… gone.”

“I was gone. And now, I’m back. Funny how that works.” He leaned in closer. “Have you ever been dead before? It’s not fun. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

I swallowed. It sounded dangerously close to a threat.

“How, though? I mean… you were gone, gone. Believe me, I’m glad you’re back, I mean, obviously I am, it was an accident and I didn’t want it to happen and then there was just no pulse and your neck was all—”

He raised a hand, cutting me off. “How isn’t important. Let me worry about the how. What is important is how you handled it.” He shook his head sadly, and I was happy to have his gaze shift away from me for just a few moments. “I’m very disappointed in you.”

I shrank back into my seat. This impossible man was berating me, chastising me like I was a child, and I knew full well that I deserved it.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. It was weak, and I knew it.

“You could have called it in. You could have tried to let my family know, tried to live up to your actions. You wouldn’t even get charged with murder, just manslaughter. Instead you dumped my body in a lake. You’re a coward.”

I hated that he said it with such disgust. I hated that I knew he was right. Something broke inside of me, and I could feel the beginnings of tears welling up in the corners of my eyes.

He drummed his fingers on the table, his gaze unwavering. “I thought for a fair while about what to do with you. It’s good you came here, you know. I was going to have to track you down by your license plate. You saved both of us some hassle.” He paused, giving me a chance to speak. When I said nothing, he pressed on. “Have you ever killed someone before?”

I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak. He gave a small sigh.

“Figures. You’re not the first person to kill me, for what it’s worth. That doesn’t make it any better for you.” For the first time, he looked away from me, massaging his wrist with one hand. If I looked closely, I could see another scar there, a paper-thin white line that crossed his skin in the same way the one on his neck did. Ah.

He turned back to me, and I quailed at the renewed force of his glare. His spoke through thinly pressed lips.

“I’m going to let you go.”

It took me a second to process. “R-really? I mean… I can understand why you would be pissed. I think… I think I deserve it.”

He looked me over, as if searching for something written on my skin. He sounded less confident when he spoke up.

“That’s why I’m letting you go. You realize how badly you messed up. You didn’t do it maliciously, and you genuinely regret it.” He let out a deep sigh. “I wish you didn’t. I wish you were an entitled, self-righteous jerk that I could justify taking revenge on. But you’re not.”

He stood up, and started walking back toward the counter. When he was standing beside me, he looked down at me. He looked down on me. I could see it in his stance, and I could feel it in me. I was lesser, I was flawed, I was scum.

“Consider yourself lucky,” he said. “I got to come back. It’s nothing special. But you?”

He walked away, calling back the words as he went.

“You get a second chance.”