Dead women have vendettas.
Copyright Ruby Allure
Domestic violence equals a quarter of all recorded violent crime in England and Wales.
One call per minute to the police is about domestic violence.
One in four women fall victim to domestic violence in their life time.
On average a woman is assaulted thirty five times before she calls the police.
Only thirty five percent of violent incidents are reported.
Twenty five percent of women experiencing domestic violence are assaulted for the first time during pregnancy.
On average two women per week are killed by a partner, or former partner.
Approximately three quarters of a million women have been raped on at least one occasion since the age of sixteen.
One in twenty women in England and Wales has been a rape victim.
One hundred and sixty seven women are raped every day.
One in five rape attacks are reported to the police.
Eve stood in the shadows waiting. Silence. She refastened her kit bag and watched intently; all her hard work was about to come to fruition. Over the previous weeks she had visited the local bars to learn as much as she could about ‘him’. She knew his brand of cigarette, what, when and where he ate. She knew how and where he lived. She had studied the plans of his house (pulled from the developer’s website). She had accessed all his records. His prison report stated he had a thing for girls aged fifteen and under. He got up at ten and didn’t have a regular job; instead he peddled drugs to teenagers for them to sell to other children at school. That was his way in. He often wore a tracksuit top and combat trousers. No one was close to him; no-one would miss him. He repulsed her!
Eve stood silently counting her breaths and his paces as he came into her range of vision. Every step he made forwards, she counted one digit back in groups of ten. Finally he came to his house and paused. He pressed the lit cigarette to his lips and fumbled for his keys.
Eve slowed her breath and silently tapped her index finger against her leg. She reversed silently further into the comfort of the shadow of a nearby tree, that tree stood on the edge of the estate close to the river bank. Eve switched her modified goggles to enhance the night image. He was now a luminous green. She intended to witness every second of his strategic demise.
Still he fumbled for his keys.
‘Come on!’ she mouthed impatiently. Eve caught herself mumbling. What was he waiting for? Did he suspect what was about to happen? How could he? No! Eve glanced over her shoulder; the cold, dark river resembled black oil. She didn’t relish the thought of it.
‘Hurry up!’ she muttered under her breath. He was taking too long. Did he sense something? That same question – same answer – he couldn’t could he? Eve took another deep breath, she had to leave. She had already outstayed her welcome.
She slowly reversed around the horse chestnut, whose shadow had shielded her. She reached the river bank and paused, looking again over her shoulder; her feet submersed in the dark murk. Eve chewed her lip. The cretin was finally but definitely going inside. She took one more breath and watched the man align his key with the door. He unsteadily inserted it and turned it in the lock. When the door opened he paused on the threshold – why didn’t he just go in like usual? Had he inhaled the pungent smell of gas?
Bang! The cigarette blasted backwards, engulfed within a scorching flame blast. The tongue of flame wrapped around him and he was gone. Eve blinked, she could feel the heat even from where she was standing some sixty metres away; a second later she slid into the cool river water, adjusted her breathing canister, a clever little pony bottle permitting fifteen minutes of underwater swimming.
She plunged deeper into the sluggishly moving river and swam gracefully away without a ripple. She had only about forty metres to get to the other bank and allowed herself to drift down beyond the bridge, well away from what would become a hotspot of activity after the demolition of the monster’s house. There was no trace, there couldn’t be! No witnesses, nothing, just an evil man who got what he deserved.
As Eve swam through the dark water, she decided to surface to get one last glimpse of her handy work. She turned onto her back and admired the colour of the orange flames erupting into the night. In the stark intensity of flame she could see curls of dense smoke caught on the breeze spiralling into the sky. The translucent watery division protected her while she observed the devastation, her devastation.
On the other side of the river Eve dragged herself darkly and silently up the bank and sat for a moment. The flames clawed the stars, she was mesmerised. That was her labour, her creation. Eve shifted to standing and made her way to her car. It was parked in a dark, solitary area under a lightening-split oak. She had taken care to select this parking spot to afford her the protection of the dark for her quick change routine. She removed the layer covering her wetsuit, then the wetsuit itself. She then placed the 9mm scuba suit in a sealed container full of fresh water. Hurriedly she threw on a large black jumper and dark tracksuit bottoms. Quickly she stowed the bags and containers quietly on the floor behind the driver’s seat.
Climbing in behind the wheel, clicking the buckle of her seat belt she turned the key, the hybrid engine purred, engaging drive she drove silently away. Minutes later, so far removed from the scene, she breathed normally and turn on her favourite post-destruction CD, Chopin’s prelude. Humming to herself she set her course for home, the long way for her well-rehearsed exit.