Revenge Isn't Always So Sweet

        As the sunlight began to dim, Alexander Galdone sat on his mattress. It was the only thing that Zander had to himself and himself alone. He looked out the small, barred window on the door. Just like a few minutes ago, he saw nothing but a cement wall and the jail guard. The guard sat at a desk across the hallway, his back facing toward Zander’s window.
         Zander’s eyes scanned over the desk. It wasn’t there. He paused to rub his eyes and then looked again. No, it wasn’t there at all. Zander’s eyebrows furrowed, and his face contorted with rage – but in a moment, he had relaxed. Holding in anger was nothing new to Zander; he had been doing it for three years.
         The guard outside the window stood up, and Zander’s eyes quickly focused on the desk. As the guard pulled away, Zander saw it. It was simply a picture of the guard’s wife and kids. But the glass was what attracted Zander the most.
         The reflection on the glass revealed a bronze plate attached to Zander’s door. On it, it read:

“Prisoner: Alexander Galdone.
Length of Imprisonment: Life.
Reason: Murder of Sheila Dunn, Case 7054.”

         He smiled. The emotion in his smile was neither happiness nor pride, but of redemption. Zander had waited three long years. He would get his revenge on Troy Altman.
         Zander looked back over to the picture. The guard’s wife was small, with long brown hair. In a way, she reminded Zander of Sheila, and what short little time he had with her. But he was the reason why she was gone. Zander began to recall the events of that dreadful day. . .

         It had happened at Sheila’s house. Zander and Sheila had recently come back from a date, and were currently sitting on the couch. Neither had noticed Troy waiting in the curtains, the curtains that covered huge glass windows, all closed. Troy began slowly approaching the pair from behind, a small, silver pistol in hand. The quiet click! of the safety being turned off on the pistol. Both Zander and Sheila turned around, not expecting what was going to happen.
         “Don’t move.” Troy breathed. He cast a glance at Zander. “So this is the trash you left me for, Sheila?” Troy asked, a deranged look plastered on his face. He snickered, then continued. “Well, then, I had better take out the trash.” He pulled the pistol up to Zander’s forehead. Zander closed his eyes, waiting for his impending doom to fall upon him.
         “Troy. Troy, please listen to me.” Sheila’s voice seemed to soothe Troy, and he turned to face her, forgetting Zander. The rest of her words had been a blur to Zander, for they were unimportant. Zander lifted up a wooden chair and smashed it into Troy’s back. Troy collapsed to the floor, sending the gun flying to Zander’s feet.
        Zander bent over and picked up the pistol. Troy propped himself up on his arms and began crawling backwards, away from Zander. Zander held the pistol out at arm’s length, the barrel pointing at Troy. “You tried to kill me, Troy.”
         “It was an acci-” Troy began, but Zander cut him off. “Don’t say it was an accident.” He said, his cold, heartless eyes bearing the presence of a murderer. Zander’s finger wrapped around the trigger, playing with the threat of death.
         “Alex, don’t…” Sheila begged, standing behind his arm. Zander didn’t hear her. He pulled the trigger.

         One person had died that night, but it wasn’t Troy or Zander. The silver pistol had been made improperly. Because of that, it imploded upon pressing of the trigger. The bullet shot backward and instantly killed Sheila. Of course, it wasn't difficult to prove Zander did it; his fingerprints were all over the gun.
         But that was in the past. Now was the time to take revenge on the man who caused him to take the life of his girlfriend. Zander had had this planned for three years.
         The guard outside the room had left for the restroom, and Zander met his chance. He rushed to his mattress and lifted it up. On the underside was a small hole he had cut to store anything he ever found in the jail. Out of it, he pulled a small magnet and an old, ragged green shirt that he had worn just before getting arrested. Zander tore the shirt into a long, thin strip. Taking one end, he tied a knot around the magnet. Zander took a brief second to make sure that the guard had not returned, then continued his work.
         He only had a small chance of success, to toss the magnet out of the window and onto the keys that the idiot guard left lying on the desk. But to Zander, escape was inevitable. He tossed the magnet onto the desk with ease, and then yanked it backwards to catch the keys. Then, Zander pulled the magnet back to his dingy room to grab the metal keys. He flipped through the keys until he found the one for his cage. He flicked his wrist toward the lock and inserted the key, twisting it until he heard a soft click!. Zander was free, at least for now. He slipped through the door, locking it behind him. Zander stowed the keys in his pocket, and then began to sprint through the hallway.
        It was not long before someone found Zander. He had figured on it, on what to do. Screams telling him to stop were behind him, but he ignored them as he ran down to the evidence room, where they stored every weapon from every massacre, from every slaughter. It was the perfect artillery room for Zander. He smashed his hand through the glass door of the nearest case, Case 7054, and withdrew its contents. Zander found simply one near-broken pistol and a single bullet. He quickly loaded the pistol, flipped off the safety, and continued through the evidence room.
         Zander paused, his pursuers entering the evidence room. He looked up to the ceiling, into the ventilation system. Once more, he slammed his bloody fist through the vent and climbed up. Voices behind him continued to yell, looking for him, but none of them seemed to know where he really was. Zander continued crawling until he hit a small opening on the top of the vent. Here was his escape. Zander popped the vent open, and threw himself out of the jail building. All around him were alarms and spotlights, waiting to find him. Maybe there was no escape after all.

         He glanced around the area, looking for a possible way out; an unguarded gate, or a hole in a fence. However, something caught Zander's eye before even pondering the thought of escape. On the back of a police uniform, in  large, capital letters read the one word that would solve Zander's problem: ALTMAN.
         “So that's what Troy has done with his life the past few years. . . worked his way up into the police,” Zander thought. He left his rationale at the roof as he jumped down to meet Troy. “It's always such a pleasure to see you again, Troy,” Zander casually stated as Troy, shocked, spun around to face him. “It's just too bad that it has to be over.” With that, Zander pulled the gun to Troy's forehead, and Troy didn't move.
         “Why are you doing this, Alex?” Troy asked desperately, hoping for another officer to see him in peril. “Why not?” Zander asked coolly back. “It's only a few seconds for redemption, something that I have waited for. Three, long, grueling years, I have waited for this moment. And now, it's dawned upon me. It's time to say goodbye, Troy. . .”
         Once more, Zander pulled the trigger.

         The police recorded stated simply that Zander had committed suicide, a shot to the forehead with the very gun that he murdered Sheila Dunn with. Troy never spoke a word.