Seven Years Gone: My Ex's Revenge

Yvan, my brother with autism, struggled to communicate and could only scream when overwhelmed. Susanna used to be so gentle with him, digging through endless research to help us teach him how to express himself. Now, those memories seemed like a distant dream.

Yvan had not lost control like this in years.

The bodyguards dragged him in by his arms as his legs kicked the air. He was desperately trying to break free from their hold. His screams were raw with fear and panic, but no one even tried to calm him. His terror only grew.

The Susanna who once whispered softly to my brother, patient and kind, was gone. Now, she glared at him with disgust. "Shut him up. His screaming is giving me a headache," she snapped, her voice icy.

Dad, despite his shattered leg, moved toward Yvan as fast as his battered body would allow. The bodyguards, caught off guard, let go of Yvan. Dad quickly embraced him, whispering soothing words. But Yvan kept thrashing, his fear too great.

"Yvan, don't be scared," Dad murmured, his voice cracking. "It's just a game we're playing. Remember Susanna?"

At the sound of her name, Yvan's wild struggling eased, just a little.

Dad said softly, "Susanna, the one who gave you all those paintbrushes. She's not going to hurt you, alright?"

For a moment, Yvan's eyes flickered with recognition. His gaze searched for Susanna, a rare spark of excitement breaking through the fear. It was like he was reaching for the past, for the Susanna who had once brought light into his dark world.

Dad's eyes were pleading as he looked at her. "Susanna, he's just a child. He doesn't understand. Please let him go."

For a brief second, I saw a flicker of something in Susanna's eyes—a hesitation, a glimpse of the woman she used to be. However, it was gone in an instant. Her voice remained cold and haughty.

"Let him go? Maybe that's not entirely out of the question," she said, her tone mocking.

Hope stirred in me for the first time. Maybe she remembered. Maybe she was thinking of the times she would burst into our house, her arms overflowing with paintbrushes and paper as she brimmed with excitement. I could still hear her voice from those days. "Matthew, I found a way to help your brother! I spoke with experts, and they say painting can really make a difference for kids with autism."

I remembered her sitting with Yvan, guiding his tiny hands, even when he yelled and pushed her away. I had told her to take a break as I was worried she was pushing herself too hard. But she just smiled and said, "He's sick, Matthew. He needs us to be patient with him."

Each time she visited, she would paint with him, breaking through his walls little by little and helping him find calm. Painting had opened a door for Yvan—a door that, until Susanna came along, had always been closed.

But now, at this moment, the warmth of that memory clashed brutally with the scene unfolding before me.

Back in the room, Susanna's hand moved, a cold gleam catching my eye—a dagger.

She stepped closer and squatted down next to Yvan while dragging the blade against the floor with a screech. A sinister smile twisted her lips.

"You have ten minutes," she said, her voice low and menacing. "If Matthew's not here in ten minutes, I'll start cutting. One finger for every minute he's late."