I stepped forward, just enough for the porch light to catch the gleam of the bat at my side. Mark’s eyes flickered to it and back to my face, confusion contorting his smug expression.
“You know, Mark,” I said, my voice steady now, as steady as the hand gripping the bat, “I spent years tending to my garden. There’s a rhythm to it, a kind of peace. You learn to appreciate patience, to nurture what you love and to protect it fiercely.”
He snorted, dismissing my words as the ramblings of an old man. “Get off my property, old man, before I call the cops.”
I smiled—a slow, deliberate stretch of the lips. “Cops? I don’t think you want them involved, do you?”
His bravado faltered for a split second, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face.
“Besides,” I continued, “what would they say about the blood on your shirt? About the bruises on my daughter?”
Anger flared in his eyes, but I saw the fear lurking beneath it. He took a step back, as if the distance might somehow shield him from the reality unfolding.
“Lily isn’t coming back, Mark. She’s done living in fear,” I said, raising the bat slightly. “And neither am I.”
The rain continued to pour, each drop a metronome counting down to the inevitable confrontation. Mark’s face twisted with rage, and he lunged forward, perhaps thinking his size would intimidate me.
But he was wrong.
With a swift, trained motion, I swung the bat, not with the reckless abandon of a desperate father but with the precision of a man who had once been highly skilled in combat. It connected with Mark’s forearm, the crack audible even above the storm.
He howled in pain, stumbling back into the house, clutching his arm. I followed, closing the door behind me, trapping him in the opulent cage he had built for himself.
“You think money makes you untouchable, that it can erase any sin you commit,” I said, advancing on him. “But out here, it’s just you and me, Mark. No lawyers, no security. Just justice.”
I could see the realization dawning on him—that he had underestimated the quiet man from number 42, the man he had dismissed so easily.
“I didn’t want this,” I told him, and it was true. “But you gave me no choice.”
With one final swing, I brought the bat down, not ending a life, but ending the reign of terror Mark had imposed on my daughter. I left him there, groaning on the floor, his empire of fear crumbling around him.
As I stepped back into the rain, I felt the burden of the years lift, each drop washing away the guise of harmlessness I had worn for so long. I was no longer just the quiet neighbor; I was a father, reclaiming his world, one swing at a time.