It irritated her how she had to always keep the window open. It was often cold or rainy, and she didn’t like either of those weather conditions to get into her living room. But then, those weather conditions were exactly why the window to the fire escape always stayed open at least five inches. If it was cold and she shut the window, her baby could freeze to death or decide he didn’t love her anymore. And if it was raining, he could drown in a large puddle or move in with someone else, someone with the capabilities to install an official cat door, and, of course, decide he didn’t love her anymore. All of those things would be tragic. As it was, the humidity from the morning’s rain was ruining her canvas. The paint would never dry. She would never be able to paint next layer and never be able to successfully run out of blue paint and be forced to purchase more. Oh well, she would have to just risk having her apartment catch fire. The blue was that important. She picked up her easel and all her supplies and carefully transferred them into her bedroom, where she shut the door and turned the space heater on high to rid the room of the damp. Someday, she would actually follow through with the plan she had come up with to fix it all. Someday (night really), she would actually get up when her alarm woke her a four in the morning and go install the cat door in the back door of her building when no one would notice her doing it. She had tools and a plan all ready and hopefully her practice on the piece of spare wood in the back of Ollie’s shop would pay off. Although, craft wood was probably not as strong over all as backdoor-of-an-apartment-building-in-a-sketchy-neighborhood wood would be. Actually, she could go check on that. Shutting her bedroom door behind her, she grabbed her iPod from the counter, put the earphones in her ears, stuck the iPod in the waistband of her long skirt, grabbed her keys, and walked out of the apartment barefoot. The elevator took its usual ten years to reach her floor. When it did come, she stepped carefully around the suspicious looking dark spots on the floor and pressed the ground floor button. The elevator dinged when it reached the lobby. She snuck carefully past the elevator bank she had just emerged from and down the hall that lead to the back of the building. She had to make sure no one could see her; if they did, they might be able to guess it was her that had cut the hole in their backdoor. But then, they would probably be able to guess anyway, seeing as she was the only resident that contained so much crazy for their cat. Damn it, the door was metal! There was no way she could cut through that. Well, maybe Ollie knew how… No, that didn’t make sense. Art supply clerks don’t know anything about sawing through metal quietly in the middle of the night. She was confusing him with someone who worked in a hardware store. Her brother might know, though, even if Ollie wouldn’t. He could do most anything. And, of course, he owned enough large, sharp things that one of them would be bound to work. Suddenly, through the window, she spotted her cat. She pulled the backdoor open and called for him. “Nightwitch! Come here Nightwitch!” He bounded up to her immediately, and she scooped him up in her arms.
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The world was blurry, but he was there. The sun shone brightly as the young and naive Ryan walked with his family along the pristinely white beach. Life had its ups and downs for Ryan, but he felt like he had finally made it; he'd finally achieved true happiness with his wife and his only son, James. "I am the luckiest guy in the world" he told his wife. She smiled at him while her eyes glistened in the sunlight. She was beautiful. They kissed. James ran ahead with the new kite he had made. Ryan put his arm around her as they continued their stroll. "7 years old," Ryan said wistfully. His wife continued to smile. Ryan suddenly noticed something flying out of the corner of his eye. The kite was flying away, no longer under the grip of its owner. "James?" Ryan yelled. No reply. "James?! JAMES?" Ryan felt his stomach twist with panic. He ran as fast as he could..."
Ryan awoke to the dingy, small room, apartment 420, reeking of sweat. He sobbed briefly, and remembered the bottle of whisky he kept within arms length at all times. He resisted momentarily, then gave in and took a shot. The alcohol slid warmly down his throat, on its way to numbing his soul. He wondered if the nightmares would ever stop, if the guilt would ever become bearable. One thing was certain: he would never stop thinking about that day, not until he died, after he killed them all. He looked around the discolored wall at the copious supply of sharp cutting tools he now owned. He loved those tools. They were the only things he could trust. The tools would always be there to help him, and they would never die; they were immortal, and they would help Ryan find vengeance. He knew it wouldn't make him feel any better, to kill them, but he wanted them dead; he wanted to watch them suffer the most horrific and agonizing end his mind could create. He stripped himself of his plain black t-shirt and worn black jeans and turned on the shower. Ryan still had his sister to worry about. She was the only thing he had left. At least his parents had died happily, maybe even peacefully. Peace... Ryan pondered the word, so foreign to his life. He went over the to-do list for the following day in his mind as he felt the cheap showerhead spray cold water on his body. Get parts for the car, find more areas to conceal weapons in his apartment, add to his arsenal of explosives, and map out the location of the people who killed his family. He knew that he was crazy, but was he still crazy if he knew it? Ryan wanted to know everything about them. He knew if he posed as the right people and used his laptop hidden between the mattresses to hack into their computer he could get the knowledge he wanted. Ryan couldn't stop thinking about it. He needed to turn his mind off for a while; his perpetual rage was exhausting. He downed more whiskey, tore the stained sheets from his bed, and laid down on the cold mattress until sleep returned.
Ryan awoke to the crisp breeze that wrapped itself around his cold, chiseled body. He had grown accustomed to the broken window of apartment 420, and it was a convenient way to be woken up. After all, he could fix it, if he wanted to, but what the hell did he care anyway? Besides, an alarm clock might disturb the neighbors through the thin walls of Washington Heights, which would attract too much attention. He moved to his closet and extracted a new wrinkled black t-shirt before leaving the apartment. Headaches from hangovers no longer bothered or mattered to Ryan, but he figured he’d go have a hair of the dog at the bar to prevent distraction during the day. Screw the elevator; the piece of shit takes too long. Stairs would be fine. On the way down, Ryan passed a few indistinct faces; he was too focused on the day ahead to concern himself with others, though they seemed to pause expectantly as he descended towards the door. At last he made it outside. He eyed his 1967 Shelby Mustang GT500 and decided he would drive to the bar, in spite of the fact that it was only a few yards away from where he was standing. He lost himself in the beautiful growl the big-block v8 emanated. As soon as he placed his foot on the accelerator he was already at the bar. As he walked in, his face became magnetically attracted to the stunning figure walking the opposite direction. The rest of the time he was there, all he could think about was red…
Now that Ryan was done with his drinks, he was ready to begin. He took the car to the abandoned lot behind the Last Resort Thrift Store and began his work with the scrap metal he had stored behind the dumpster. After hours of hard work, the car was a vision of pure beauty. The car was in every way reinforced (which did put an unfortunate dent in the car’s horsepower) and there were weapons hidden in every crevice imaginable. Also, the car could, at the touch of a button, explode in the case of an extreme emergency that Ryan hoped would never come. In the absence of his human family, Ryan seemed to have made one out of the cold and unfeeling machinery that he now poured his misplaced love into. Ryan would probably be completely insane if it weren’t for his sister Clio. He wondered what would happen if she knew everything, or much of anything that was going on with Ryan for that matter. Hopefully she would never find out, but the fact was that it was inevitable that she would. He would worry about this when the time came. He had other more important matters to concern himself with at the moment. Through his sources he had managed to find an address, and he knew with further examination the plan would all come together. He could already feel the saw blade cutting into their flesh, smell the blood pouring out of them. His heart pounded with rage. They will pay.
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