LOTTERY OF VENGEANCE

The streets of Westbridge smelled of oil, smoke, and broken dreams. Rusted streetlights flickered against cracked sidewalks where the homeless huddled in shadows, and the hum of engines mixed with distant sirens that never came soon enough.

Jackson Carter adjusted the strap of his worn-out backpack and tightened his fists inside his pockets. The night was colder than usual, but the hunger gnawing at his stomach was louder than the wind.

His sneakers, two sizes too small and patched in more places than they were whole, scraped against the concrete as he marched down the alley toward the convenience store.

Inside his pocket was a miracle. A crumpled wad of bills, ten-dollar notes, fives, a few singles, all stacked together to make a full hundred dollars. A hundred.

It wasn’t much to the people who drove by in their shiny sedans, but to Jackson, it was a treasure. One hundred dollars meant his mother could finally get the medicine she needed instead of rationing pills.

It meant his little sister, Anna, could eat something more than bread and watered-down milk for the week. It meant, just for tonight, he could walk home with pride instead of shame.

He pulled the money out and stared at it under the pale moonlight. His lips curved into a smile, rare, fragile, but real. “Ma’s gonna be so happy,” he muttered to himself.

Anna’s laughter echoed in his head, that high-pitched giggle that always made him forget how cruel the world was. She’d probably dance around the kitchen when he handed her the chocolate bar he managed to grab for her too.

His mother would scold him for wasting money on sweets, but he knew the secret, that her tired eyes softened every time Anna smiled. For once, life seemed lighter.

Jackson quickened his pace. The Carter home wasn’t much, a leaning wooden structure at the far end of Redwood Street, just a few rooms with peeling paint and windows patched with tape.

But it was home, and tonight, he wanted nothing more than to rush through the door, show them what he had earned, and feel that brief glow of hope. But as he turned the corner, his steps faltered.

Two black SUVs were parked crookedly outside his house. Engines still running, headlights casting sharp beams across the yard. Shadows moved, tall men in dark suits, their silhouettes sharp against the glow of the porch light. Jackson froze.

His heart thumped wildly. These weren’t neighbors. They weren’t friends. Men like that didn’t belong on Redwood Street. “What the hell…” he whispered, slowing down.

One of the men adjusted the rifle slung across his chest. The metallic click echoed down the block, and Jackson’s stomach dropped. Guns. Why were there guns at his house?

He stepped closer, quietly, his body pressing against the neighbor’s fence for cover. His eyes strained in the dim light until they caught on something in the dirt. A shape, Small, Still. “No…”

Jackson’s legs buckled as he stumbled forward, unable to believe what he was seeing. His sister, Anna, lay sprawled across the ground in front of the porch.

Her tiny frame was soaked in crimson, her pale dress clinging to her body. Her eyes, those bright, innocent eyes, were open but glassy, staring at nothing. The chocolate bar slipped from Jackson’s hand.

“No… no, no, no!” His voice cracked, raw and desperate, as he dropped to his knees beside her body. He gathered her in his arms, cradling her against his chest, rocking back and forth as tears blurred his vision.

“Anna! Please, wake up, baby, wake up!”

His scream tore through the night, carrying enough pain to break the stars. The men turned toward him. Their faces came into focus under the headlights, cold, sharp-eyed, merciless. Not strangers. Predators.

But Jackson didn’t care. He clutched Anna’s lifeless body, his tears soaking her bloodstained dress. The world spun, collapsing into nothing but grief. From inside the house came a sound, weak, broken. “J… Jackson…”

His head snapped up. His mother. Jackson laid Anna down gently, kissed her forehead, and staggered into the house. The door hung off its hinges, the living room a mess of overturned furniture and shattered glass. The smell of iron filled the air.

There, on the floor near the couch, lay Maria Carter. His mother. Her chest rose and fell in shallow gasps, her hands clutching at the blood soaking her blouse. Jackson dropped beside her, holding her hand.

“Ma… I’m here. Please… don’t, don’t talk, I’ll get help.”

Her eyes, dim but fierce, locked on his. “Listen to me… my time has come.”

“No! Don’t say that, Ma, please”

She shook her head weakly. “It’s all up to you now. Look at their faces… do not spare anyone of them. These… these are the same men who killed your father.”

Jackson’s chest constricted. “What? Father ? You said he… you said it was an accident”

Her lips trembled. “No accident. Murder. Promise me, Jackson… promise you won’t forgive…”

Her voice broke into a whisper. A final breath. And then, stillness. Jackson’s world shattered a second time. “Nooooo!” His scream was raw, his throat burning as he clutched his mother’s lifeless hand.

The sound of boots echoed behind him. Before he could rise, the men descended, ruthless fists and boots hammering him down.

His body crumpled under the blows. His ribs cracked, his face smashed against the floor. Blood filled his mouth. “Pathetic,” one of them spat, kicking him in the stomach.

They beat him until he no longer moved, until his body was just another heap of broken flesh beside his dead family.

And then, as casually as they had arrived, they walked away. Engines roared, headlights vanished, and silence returned to Redwood Street. Jackson lay there, gasping, broken, his tears mixing with blood on the wooden floor.

Somewhere in his spinning mind, his mother’s words replayed like a curse: Do not spare anyone of them. Jackson is left for dead, his family murdered, his soul shattered, and the seed of vengeance planted.