Once the rush of vengeance faded, Tara found herself grappling with an overwhelming, unanticipated sense of remorse.

She had taken a life.

Her body convulsed painfully as she leaned over the toilet in her apartment, trembling violently. Every retch seemed to tear at her insides, her stomach heaving in a futile attempt to expel the turmoil within. Her sides ached, and every breath felt like a struggle.

Each wave of nausea seemed to worsen, aggravated by the haunting images of Ethan's bloodied form.

The weight of her actions pressed down on her, and Tara sank to the floor, struggling to steady herself. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, feeling the bitter taste of regret mingle with the bile.

She killed someone, and no one knew about it.

As she turned to lean against the wall, her gaze fell on the pile of clothes discarded by the door, a silent reminder of what happened to her. They glared at her, accusing her of weakness and betrayal, daring her to keep wallowing in useless guilt.

How could you even think that? How could you feel bad about what you've done after what you've been through?

Defiance flickered within her, slowly growing into a bigger flame. She did nothing wrong. She had simply rid the world of one monster among many.

A surge of satisfaction coursed through her, fueled by the ugly memories of her own vulnerability and the helplessness she had felt. Her actions, though horrific, had given her a sense of power, a twisted form of justice. 

A fire of anger and determination roared behind her hardened gaze.

"One down," she rasped, her throat raw from retching. "Four more to go." Her shoulder shook with silent laughter. "Oh," she sighed, feeling silly for her unseemly meltdown. "Now, who do we have next?"

Tara shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her joints aching from the prolonged sitting in the stiff chair. Her eyes, however, remained fixed on the muscular guy seated in the outdoor area of the café opposite hers. He leaned with his elbow on the armrest, the wind ruffling his sunlight strands.

Every day at four in the evening, Alex Everett frequented this shop, claiming a corner table where he sat alone for two hours. Sipping his doppio and engrossed in his phone, he seemed impervious to the hustle and bustle around him.

Having committed his every move to memory from stalking him for three consecutive days, she could easily foresee what he was going to do next. She smirked when her prediction came true as he lit another cigarette and signaled the waitress for a refill. He usually had two cups before ordering a latte to go. 

She grimaced at the unhealthy amount he was consuming. However, as an avid smoker, it most definitely didn't bother him. She still vividly remembered the awful smell and disgusting taste of his mouth as he forced himself on her.

Her stomach churned, and she sipped her water to ease her nerves. Tara wondered if he had gone out for a coffee date with himself during the three days of hell she had endured. She shook her head, convincing herself that it didn't matter. What mattered was that Alex appeared to enjoy his solitary ritual, undisturbed by passersby or calls.

It was perfect for what she had in store for him.

Her eyes fixated on his hand as he raised the cup to his lips, the same hand that had struck her in the car, so hard her body turned sideways. As his muscles flexed and his fingers moved, she ached to see him paralyzed, unable to even call for help. 

Tara wished he would drop dead right then and there.

Her nails dug into her palms, and her chest expanded with a deep, calming inhale. "Soon," she murmured, rising to her feet, ready to set her plan into motion. She had one hour before he left.

On her way out, Tara glanced at her reflection in the large window, deeming her heavy makeup and outfit satisfactory. She could easily pass as a sketchy street vendor. Blending seamlessly into the hustle and bustle, she strode towards the only four people sitting outside. 

First, she walked up to a couple seated to Alex's right, and, with a practiced smile, inquired, "Could I have a moment of your time to discuss a new product we've just launched?"

The woman, her attention drawn to the large, frayed bag slung over her shoulder, searched for the brand. Finding nothing, she shrugged, her partner swiftly cutting off Tara's pitch and sending her on her way.

Internally smirking at the success of her shady appearance, Tara moved to a man beside them who quickly shooed her away. Balling her fists, she turned her attention to her oblivious target. Replicating her approach, she barely received a glance from Alex, who dismissed her with a casual wave of his hand.

As she moved to pass him, she purposely let her tote bag slip from her shoulder. It dropped by his feet, its contents spilling. "Oh, goodness," Tara groaned, exaggerating her dismay as she bent down to retrieve them with everything she was carrying.

"I've got it," he grunted, hunching over to pick up each item and stuff it inside.

His voice sent shivers down her spine, and recollections of the animalistic sounds and vile words he had whispered into her ears rushed back to her. Tara clenched her teeth, fighting to keep her composure as he held the same bag he had ripped from her shoulder that evening. Seizing the moment of his distraction, she swiftly retrieved a vial of cyanide from her pocket and poured its contents into his glass.

When he was almost finished, she deftly inserted a tiny syringe of succinylcholine into the back of his neck, then held it loosely against her palm, away from his confused gaze. Tara hadn't expected her studies and light-handedness to come in handy in such a situation.

Alex sat up with a frown, moving his head from side to side. She snatched her bag from his hold with her free hand while avoiding contact with his skin. "Thanks," she sighed dreamily, carefully disposing of the needle inside. "You're a lifesaver."

"Uh, yeah, welcome," he replied distantly, still not bothering to spare her a glance as he rubbed his neck.

Tara turned on her heels, striding purposefully into the café. After placing her order for a doppio, she headed to the restroom. Unzipping her duffle bag, fabric rustling filled the empty space as she changed into the outfit she had worn on the day of her kidnapping, then wiped away any remnants of her previous appearance. 

Gripping her coffee tightly, she settled into a tucked-away seat with a superb view of her target. Her gaze fixed unwaveringly on him, waiting for the medicaments to take effect. He had inadvertently chosen the perfect spot for his demise—a quaint, secluded corner where justice would be discreetly served.

Time ticked by slowly, with Alex sipping his coffee leisurely as if he had all the time in the world. After a while, the effects of cyanide poisoning started to manifest. His blinking accelerated, and his breaths became shallow and rapid. He rubbed his chest, seeking solace where his heart should beat steadily. The oxygen delivery to his tissues must have finally become compromised, causing a sensation of suffocation.

His growing headache clouded his thoughts, making it difficult for him to grasp the situation. His hands barely reached his head before falling back to his lap, prompting a frown as he glanced at them.

Alex's confusion and disorientation amused Tara.

She observed as his arm struggled against gravity, panic flashing through his eyes. Succinylcholine must've begun to take effect, weakening his muscles as it gradually inhibited his voluntary movement, inducing a sense of helplessness.

Cars zoomed by, and pedestrians strolled along the bustling street. No one spared him a glance as Alex swayed, his groans and grunts drowned out by the cacophony of life surrounding them. It felt good to watch his struggles get overlooked.

His landing was accompanied by a loud thud, followed by vomit jetting out in endless streams, painting the pavement in disgusting hues.

Satisfaction coursed through Tara as she leaned back, relishing in his plight. She watched with delight as his mouth opened and closed, failing to release anything coherent or call for help. A few passersby hesitated, their brows furrowed and lips downturned as they observed the scene.

"Yes," she whispered, absentmindedly tracing the rim of her cold coffee. "Ignore him, all of you."

He convulsed, weakly clawing at his throat before his arms fell beside him, adding to his growing distress. Panic surged through him, his body limp and unmoving, his eyes wide and frantic. Muscle paralysis had seized his limbs, robbing him of his ability to breathe, and arrhythmias must have exacerbated his unbridled fear as it paved the way for cardiac arrest.

Tara counted silently, her own rapid, thunderous heartbeats echoing his. While hers sang a melody of victory, his failing organ drummed to the beat of death, a symphony of impending doom.

Their eyes met, and she smirked as her identity registered in his foggy brain. She sat in the shadows, a specter of retribution lurking in the background, haunting her prey with a devilish grin and eyes as deep as the abyss.

Lifting the doppio to her lips, Tara sipped before raising the cup his way in a silent toast of vengeance. "See you in hell," she mouthed, watching as another life was extinguished before her, because of her.

Half an hour had passed since the initial administration of cyanide and succinylcholine—perfectly prepared doses just for him. Now he lay in a pool of his vomit and urine, a mere shell of his former ugly self.

By the time bystanders gathered around him and the ambulance arrived, Alex Everett was no more. The paramedics could only pronounce him dead.

Seizing the opportunity of the large number of onlookers seeking to quench their curiosity, but not aid someone in need, Tara slipped inside back to the restroom. Fishing out a brand new lipstick, she scribbled: 2/5.

Then, she turned and left, bumping into the cleaning lady on her way out. Muttering a quiet apology, Tara bolted out of the café, overcome with satisfaction and apprehension. 

Word count: 1732.

Total word count: 14191.