Mom's Nurse, His Mistress, My Revenge - Chapter 11: Chapter 11
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Brianna opened her mouth to protest, but Noel had reached his limit. He shoved her violently toward the door. "Get the hell out!" he bellowed.
The force sent Brianna sprawling to the floor. She scrambled up, eyes blazing, and cracked her palm across his cheek. "You're playing innocent now?" she shrieked. "Who was it that said Cornelia's mom was just dead weight? That she'd be better off six feet under? Cut the act!"
Noel's expression turned murderous. He lashed out with a brutal kick that sent her staggering. "Shut your mouth! One more word and I swear to God—"
"Oh, I'll say plenty!" she spat, wiping blood from her lip. "You couldn't wait for that poor woman to die! You're the one who told me to hide her meds, to make her suffer! Remember that night when she—"
Noel exploded. He grabbed her by the hair and smashed her head against the cabinet. "SHUT UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Spittle flew from his lips as he lost all control.
The world narrowed to the need to silence her. Her screams, the sickening crack of bone against wood, the warm blood coating his hands—none of it registered until it was over. When the red haze cleared, Brianna lay motionless, her skull caved in, blood pooling beneath her.
He stared at his crimson hands, trembling. Then he bolted—out the door, into the crowded street. Pedestrians recoiled at the wild-eyed man covered in blood. Noel looked down at himself and suddenly... laughed. A broken, hysterical sound that turned to sobs.
Someone called 911. The cops found him catatonic, mumbling nonsense. His rambling led them back to the house—to Brianna's corpse. The medical examiner would later confirm death from massive cranial trauma. Instantaneous.
The news broke next morning. Noel Remington, charged with first-degree murder. The case went viral—true crime junkies ate it up.
I felt... nothing. No pity. No satisfaction. Just the quiet understanding that karma had finally collected its debt.
That afternoon, I visited the cemetery. Sunlight warmed the granite as I traced my mother's smiling photo. "They're gone, Mom," I whispered, settling against the headstone. I told her everything—how justice had come, how she could rest now.
Before leaving, I pressed my cheek to the cold stone. "Next time," I murmured, "let me be the parent. I'll keep you safe. No one will ever hurt us again."
A gust of wind stirred my hair—like fingers through curls—and for a moment, I could almost feel her.
The force sent Brianna sprawling to the floor. She scrambled up, eyes blazing, and cracked her palm across his cheek. "You're playing innocent now?" she shrieked. "Who was it that said Cornelia's mom was just dead weight? That she'd be better off six feet under? Cut the act!"
Noel's expression turned murderous. He lashed out with a brutal kick that sent her staggering. "Shut your mouth! One more word and I swear to God—"
"Oh, I'll say plenty!" she spat, wiping blood from her lip. "You couldn't wait for that poor woman to die! You're the one who told me to hide her meds, to make her suffer! Remember that night when she—"
Noel exploded. He grabbed her by the hair and smashed her head against the cabinet. "SHUT UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Spittle flew from his lips as he lost all control.
The world narrowed to the need to silence her. Her screams, the sickening crack of bone against wood, the warm blood coating his hands—none of it registered until it was over. When the red haze cleared, Brianna lay motionless, her skull caved in, blood pooling beneath her.
He stared at his crimson hands, trembling. Then he bolted—out the door, into the crowded street. Pedestrians recoiled at the wild-eyed man covered in blood. Noel looked down at himself and suddenly... laughed. A broken, hysterical sound that turned to sobs.
Someone called 911. The cops found him catatonic, mumbling nonsense. His rambling led them back to the house—to Brianna's corpse. The medical examiner would later confirm death from massive cranial trauma. Instantaneous.
The news broke next morning. Noel Remington, charged with first-degree murder. The case went viral—true crime junkies ate it up.
I felt... nothing. No pity. No satisfaction. Just the quiet understanding that karma had finally collected its debt.
That afternoon, I visited the cemetery. Sunlight warmed the granite as I traced my mother's smiling photo. "They're gone, Mom," I whispered, settling against the headstone. I told her everything—how justice had come, how she could rest now.
Before leaving, I pressed my cheek to the cold stone. "Next time," I murmured, "let me be the parent. I'll keep you safe. No one will ever hurt us again."
A gust of wind stirred my hair—like fingers through curls—and for a moment, I could almost feel her.
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