Epilogue

He'd been lying there for about half an hour. A dull, excruciating pain spread throughout his entire body. He regretted every movement, even the slightest muscle twitch, but he refused to give up. The gash across his abdomen stretched from his groin to the point where his ribs converged inward to meet his sternum. At this point, the torturer had to stop cutting, as the blade, slicing through the tissue, grated against bone.

His body, pumped with adrenaline, clearly decided to help him fight for his life. Because fear and pain were causing his blood vessels to constrict to prevent excessive blood loss, he was conscious. Slowly, he scooped up the dripping entrails from the floor. He didn't want to look at them, closing his eyes and feeling the soft, moist organs slipping beneath his fingers.

"He'll kill the bastard! And those two bitches too. They don't know who they've messed with, they don't, but they'll find out!" He'll kill you!" He gritted his teeth, clenched in pain and anger. His heart pounded with the frequency of a jackhammer, and his breathing became increasingly short and shallow. Once he had pushed everything back into his gut, his narrowed, nervous eyes searched the room for help. His eyes landed on the bed against the wall, just within arm's reach. He propped himself up on his right elbow and practically roared in pain. The noise of startled crows perched on a metal drainpipe drifted in through the open window. They smelled the meat and awaited a buffet of sorts.

"You won't be disappointed! You scavengers will be disappointed," he said, his voice breaking. He reached out and grabbed a white sheet, which immediately turned a vibrant crimson in that spot. He exhaled with a whoosh and, gritting his teeth, wrapped the makeshift bandage he'd just acquired around himself several times, tucking one end deep into the waistband he'd created, like the end of a towel after a bath. Within seconds, blood had soaked through the cotton. The most important thing for him now was to get out of this place.

It felt like an eternity, though in reality he'd only been crawling for five minutes, and only half a meter separated him from the open door. He grabbed the doorframe and, with great effort, slowly dragged his two-meter-long frame from the house to the porch. The glare of the sun, just above the edge of the trees, pierced his dilated pupils. On the wooden platform in front of the house, where he now stood, lay an old broom. He tucked the flat, frayed-veined part under his arm and slowly, painfully, tried to rise to his feet. First to his knees, then, holding onto the wall and resting on a supposedly new crutch, he put one foot down. The pain made him want to howl, but survival was paramount; he had several matters to attend to. He wanted to keep his cool at all costs. He put his other foot down and, shaking, straightened his legs at the knees. A wave of heat surged through his body; it felt as if it had emerged from the floor and surged towards the top of his head. He only realized how much blood he must have lost during this entire time. He was already on his feet, so he could have escaped, disappeared among the trees; the forest was so dense that nothing could be seen a meter deep. But the desire for revenge, the desire to make up for the wrongs done to him, the desire to shed blood.

"That bastard must have taken them to the hospital," he thought, and apparently he had. On the sandy road, in the setting sun, he spotted the tracks of a large off-road vehicle. He slowly followed the trail, knowing he would find them there. After twenty minutes of walking, when the gray light turned to complete darkness and the stars appeared in the sky, stumbling, shivering from the cold and the terrible pain that tore through his body and surely his mind, he began to doubt. He still had a long way to the hospital, and he was clearly losing strength. Suddenly, a glimmer of hope appeared on the horizon.

"You're here!" he whispered softly. The glow of car headlights emerged from around a bend in the road, but it wasn't coming any closer; the car must have been stationary. Encouraged by this, he approached and saw him kneeling by the side of his Land Rover, apparently changing a tire. The executioner was so absorbed in his vehicle that he didn't even notice the bloodied figure approach the hood of the car, and despite his wounds, it appeared like a shadow behind him.

"You came back to finish me off?" The car owner was very surprised, even stunned. He dropped the wrench he'd been using to tighten the last wheel bolt. Without turning around, he reached for his belt, where a large hunting knife was attached, but he was faster, despite the pain and the restrictive sheet, he was faster. He grabbed the wooden handle and plunged the gleaming blade into the man's throat. "Now you know what that steel tastes like. Pleasant?" he whispered in his ear as the man, wheezing and spitting, tried in vain to draw air through his slit throat and slumped to the ground against the bodywork. Two more. He got into the vehicle, the keys inside, started the engine, slowly turned around, and, kicking up a cloud of sand on the road, sped off towards the town, leaving the body lying there. Now he knew his revenge would be fulfilled, that his shame would be washed away and his honor restored; it was only a matter of time and a few kilometers.

When he reached the suburban hospital, he parked in front of the emergency room. Apparently, there weren't many patients or calls that night, as no one was around. He quietly got out of the car and noticed that the bumpy road wasn't doing him any good. He was bleeding heavily, unsteady on his feet, and felt himself weakening. It took him a moment to gather himself. He headed for the entrance. He passed the building's large, automatic glass doors and found himself in the main hall, the only things moving there were himself and the current in the power lines that fed the fluorescent lights, casting a pale, weak light down the narrow corridor. In the dim light, he saw a sign on the wall, shaped like a curved arrow, with the white lettering "Treatment Room." He knew they would be there; they had to tend to the wounds. As he turned the corner, his gaze swept along the floor to the end of the corridor, where, on the perfectly polished marble floor, stood two bright red girlish shoes, then white socks, then a red skirt, a red coat, mouths parted in surprise and disbelief, terrified eyes, and… …and a red hood covering her head.

“She must have twisted her back, after all, it took me a little longer to process her.” A thought flashed in his mind.

“One less.” He fell to all fours, unsheathing his razor-sharp claws, and baring his fangs. He summoned the last of his strength and, foaming, flooded the room with a monstrous roar that perfectly matched the girl’s scream echoing off the walls. She dropped the basket; she had nowhere to escape, trapped by the walls surrounding her, half-covered in green paneling. In four powerful leaps, the shaggy, wounded and enraged beast quickly covered the twenty meters that separated them.

What happened next? No one knows for sure, but you can be sure he got his revenge. Jesus, how he got his revenge, how he regained his honor and pride. Only the policemen who found the body in the forest probably know. There are even legends about how she suffered, supposedly banging her head against her knees and eating her own feet to die faster, but he wouldn't let that happen.

So, dear reader, always make sure you finish what you start.