Retribution

She stood under the sprouting willow tree, north of the bayou and stared at the house. The Gilbert Hall, as it was called, where she grew up. She had taken her first breath in the servants' quarters, played on the marshes near the water as a child, learned from her mother – the senior maidservant, and when she came of age, had glided noiselessly through the large corridors, carrying dry sheets when she wasn't polishing doors with dull brass knobs, while The Gilberts held parties in their flowing gowns and spotless suits. She used to be pretty, her mass of dark curls a wild mane tumbling down her back. That was before that night, the night she was pushed out into the cold winter air, the night her mother died in her arms. January 2 was the day. It was a new year and Julio had come home drunk, again. He liked to do that, the spoilt youngest son and his mother’s favourite. She had stumbled upon him in the hallway leading to the ballroom, few minutes before midnight, her hands full of glasswares. She knew the way he looked at her, not really at her, rather at her chest and her long legs hidden under faded old gowns. But the madness in his eyes that night was nothing compared to anything she’d ever seen. When he grabbed her, the noise of shattering glasses had woken the entire household. Mrs. Gilbert rushed down first, saw Julio atop her, his fingers closed around her throat. She overlooked it, together with the torn clothes and bleeding eye, called her a whore and threw her and her dying mother out. She sighed and touched her right eye lightly. She had managed to get the pieces of broken glasses out but it was too late to save it. She wore a patch over it now. It served as a nice disguise, as did the big hat on her head. She was finally back. It took her years of hard work but she survived, and now, she would take back what they took from her. Her first step was trading an old gold locket for a pair of binoculars. Every night, she stood and watched the house. Julio had a young wife now. The men at the tavern, over large tankards of mead, had nodded when she instructed them on what to do. She put the field glass down and smiled. As she walked away, she neither noticed the decaying stomp where the old willow had stood nor the gentle sway of the dark bayou.

My entry for Foxtales' One Paragraph Flash Fiction Contest

Image is from the original post.