Nothing has changed, thought Bridgett. A place froze in time.
It was Sunday, off-season. Most of the residents of the small coastal village were in church, praying for their souls. Bridgett’s soul was no longer up for grabs. She had made peace long ago.
Bridgett considered her predicament as she walked along the boardwalk, past empty boutiques, and bistros. The cancer had spread, giving her little time to set things right. It was now or never.
“Hurt people hurt people,” her therapist told her. “You must stop the cycle of hurt to heal.”
That was why she was here.
A few blocks later, Bridgett saw Douglas. Shockingly, he looked older. Smaller. Weaker. Not the monster she remembered. With him was a young boy, a son, maybe? Douglas tossed a ball to the boy. The normalcy twisted her mind, but only for a second. Back then, he seemed normal. Even the police, her imaginary protectors, could not see the horror she endured at his hands.
Hurt people hurt people, she reminded herself. But not for long. Her hand reached into her handbag. She felt the cold steel of the gun and smiled as she walked toward his house.
Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a 200-word story based on a photo prompt. Thanks to Al Forbes (A Mixed Bag) for providing this week’s challenging photo.
Word count 197