Pushing through dusty, red curtains and towering boxes of rusty tools, Agatha lamented her poor choice of clothing for the occasion: a creme-coloured chiffon blouse and a leather skirt that curved over her hips. Dressed like she was going out for a coffee ceremony to ruffle through endless piles of paper in a dreary attic - an excellent way to spend her Sunday.
Rays of golden light passed through the window, boarded up with peeling brown paper, shining on her struggling face. The dark attic seemed to beckon her into its depths, an escape from today's especially stinging brand of suffering. Rooting and searching, she paced and stomped in search of what? A necklace that Michael, her husband, had given her 15 - no 20 - years ago? Maybe it was because she was in such lamentable pain that fate decided to smile upon her withering features. No, not withering, maturing. Only 13 wrinkles, and even those disappeared easily after a visit to Dr Donatello.
Her prime had long passed, and her shaky knees collaped under her, taking her slender frame along with it. She crashed against the piles of boxes that she had gone to such lengths to stack so she could at least move a few steps without tripping. Peeling paint from the floorboards stuck to her chiffon blouse, adding another problem to Agatha's quickly growing list. The salon called her, her couch cried to her, and she truly could hear her bed whistling, the only catcall she wanted to answer.
Amidst her lampooning, she realized that a letter had appeared on her lap. It was a weathered, yellow thing, barely holding itself together long enough to be read. The yellow rays proided enough illumination to see by, so unfortunately, she lacked an excuse to answer her home's calling.
"Dearest Agatha
I hope you've been doing well. Hopefully, you remember all that we agreed on? This letter comes as a warning, a reminder, and a promise of all we discussed.
You had always been such a sweet child, but through circumstance, you were tested in the hottest fires and burned down to ashes to be reborn as the strongest steel. Born of such beginnings, your calling had always been to serve those lower than you. A mismatched skin woven with scars and bruises, you were a true symbol of survival from the blood that created you. In the end, they paid for their crimes, and you're still here, isn't it?
And serve you did. You felt it, the same agony that millions went through, and when Deric refused to join you, we had to do it alone. Remember all that we did to serve."
And she did remember. Agatha's eyes constricted into pinpricks, then dialated, circiling between understanding and insanity. Sweat beaded on her upper lips, sliding past her lips and dripping onto her long-forgotten blouse. Violent shivers racked her body, almost ripping the paper out of her hands and onto the dusty attic floor. All she had to do was raise the sleeves of her shirt to see the scars, present even after half a century.
Tristan Liams. Age 25, single. Lives alone. Charged on numerous counts of SA, molesting and harrasing women. Given 2 years but then further reduced to 6 months and let out on bail. She still remebembered how clear and full of life his eyes were as he looked up at her from the iron table, full of such passion; passion for the women he assaulted and touched with such sparkling audacity and unparalled freedom.
"Think about how many lives we saved, how many people we gave a new chance at life to. Thanks to you, Michael was able to live a few decades more by your side."
When she had held Tristan's glistening liver in her palm, she had felt proud of her first job done right. Not a single wrong vein had been cut but even so, hopefully it would grow back. His pancreas had gone to a sickly girl of 21 whom he had drugged at a nightclub to gain 'consent'.
Thirty five years later and his blood still stained her view red. The walls seemed to squeeze towards eachother, threatening to suffocate the last vestiges of air in her lungs. Scrabbling at her throat, she ripped the pearls hanging around her neck, an attempt to breathe in the lost flavors and aromas of her youth.
Every year after Tristan, it was another and another and another....
"Your own brother refused to lock them away. How could we let these disgusting things roam the streets, to look for their next victim?"
Hundreds of records of too-short sentences and long charges appeared before her eyes and memories of the thousands of victims who didn't recieve justice threatened to choke her, a unique type of chain locked onto her conciousness.
"Who can help them but us?"
The sweat had soaked her shirt through and Agatha glanced at her slumped figure in a cracked mirror. Strands of stringy hair stuck to her neck and face, and her tedious updo had long deteriorated into a rather pretty rat's nest. Her bra was visible through the sticky shirt clinging to every sagging fold and wringle of her stomach and she couldn't help but laugh.
"This makes a lot of sense, wow," Attempting to make herself even slightly presentable, she chuckled.
"So, let's get back and help serve all those that we had forgotten. Let's do our job one more time"
Forgetting her earlier shaking and struggle, Agathan stood up. Her bruised knees protested the motion but vigour and life, such as she hadn't felt for over thirty years, returned to her and brought with it a freedom she hadn't felt in decades. A freedom earned from serving others she thought. One I'll soon return to.
Regaining her purpose, she rooted through old boxes in search of her knives and tools. Draping the curtains over her shoulders, she wore a cape of red and climbed down the attic stairs, a spring in her step that didn't exist there before.
On the attic floor lay a letter, a weathered, yellow thing, barely able to hold itself together long enough to be read, with the sign-off:
Much love, Agatha.