Words have power, and words have meaning.
People think you can spew a load onto a page, and that is that. That is the end, but some of us have power. Some of us have a gift.
I thought that I used to write without limits. The sky was never the limit. The sky, if anything, was where I would begin. I could take to the stars or visit a nearby galaxy. If I wanted to dive to the bottom of the ocean, then sure, why not! What I really enjoyed, what drove me all the time, was using my writing to take revenge upon people.
If I disliked you then by hook or by crook, I would shoehorn you into one of my stories and flay you alive; if I felt kind. If I were feeling unkind, then well, I’d make a serial killer blush. I have thrown people from buildings. I ripped the fingernails from someone who looked at me funny. I’ve drunk the blood of a man who I did not know, he had let his dog shit right outside my gate, and I have left someone to rot buried in a box in my garden. In short, I am the literary bastard. You should also keep in mind that these are the ones that I will admit. Heaven help anyone who invents a way to see into the darkest crevasses of my mind. I hope this is normal; I will look like a complete arsehole if every other writer in the world has never done this!
Where am I going with this? Just keep on reading, and you shall see.
I will call this person “Arse.” It is gender-neutral (see, I can be good!), and it gives away nothing about them, other than that they are an arse. This is factual and not bias. They are.. were an arse. Someone had hurt me. It has happened to us all. It happens to the best of us, and it happens to the worst of us. It is the one thing that can connect the richest in the world to the poorest. We have all, at one point or another, felt that pain.
I thought I knew what it was to feel, what it was to be alive and to have lived. It was not until Arse that I truly understood. Arse ripped me to pieces. Tore my heart from inside me, ate it, shat it out and let it dry. They then burnt it to a crisp, all while dancing around it, laughing and chanting spells to keep me alive. Just so I could watch how happy they were. Had my heart been a bomb, it would have been nuclear and exploding in my chest. It would have blown my insides out like a cartoon character in love. So, of course, Arse had to suffer.
In many ways, Arse actually set me free.
Some may call me names, and they may say that I am vindictive, childish and evil. Those some would be correct. I couldn’t give a damn. I have done the crime, so I shall willingly do my time.
Hanging Arse from a tree and seeing them whipped by munchkins was fun. Dragging them behind a giant cock with wheels along the road with, This is what you get, pointing at them from a giant sign was, without doubt, childish, but damn was it satisfying. Making them watch Eldorado whilst pinning their eyes open with toothpicks was perhaps vindictive, but it was worth it. Feeding them the large and small intestines of their lover was as delightful as it was disgusting. I did not, I do not, and nor will I ever give a damn. I do not care. Arse deserved it all. Burning Arse at the stake was the most fun I have ever had. It disappointed me when it had to end.
The problem occurred the following day when I read the news. What I had thought as my final fiction had actually happened to Arse. Both Arse and their lover had been killed and fed intestines, and then the bodies burnt at the stake. I should have felt some remorse. I should have felt guilt. Instead, I felt a great deal of amusement. I felt glad. I had enjoyed my retribution. I had found my power. If I were a superhero, I would be “The Wordsmith” with the ability to kill by writing your end. Fear my dictation! Behold the power of my draft. Dread the final edited version.
So as I sit in wrath writing this down, I see the souls that will forever be tormented by what they had done. I see souls that regret every passing moment of their wrath. I sit drinking a beer, and I feel for them. They can’t ever know the pleasure that I felt. The happiness and the delightful peace that having my vengeance bought me.
I am, for now, content.