Oh, I have wrath. Words have a power, words have meaning. People think you can spew a load on to a page and that is that, that is the end, but some of us have a power. Some of us have a gift.
I used to write without limits, if I disliked you then by hook or by crook I would shoehorn you in to one of my stories and flay you alive, if I felt kind, if I were feeling unkind then well, I’d make Satan 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 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 a literal bastard. You should also keep in mind these are the ones I will admit, heaven help anyone who invents a way to see in to the darkest crevasses of my mind. I am hoping this is normal; I am going to 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 shall 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 has hurt us, it has happened to us all. It happens to the best of us, and it happens to the worse of us. It is the one thing that can connect the richest in the world to the poorest, we have all felt that pain. I thought I knew what it was to feel. It was not until arse that I truly knew. Arse ripped me to pieces. Tore my heart from inside me, ate it, shat it out and let it dry out. They they burnt it to a crisp all while dancing around it and chanting spells to keep me alive, just so I could watch how happy they were. Had my heart been a bomb, it was nuclear and exploding in my chest. So, arse had to suffer.
Some may call me names. They may say 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 the time. Hanging arse from a tree to see them whipped by munchkins was fun. Dragging them behind a giant cock 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 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 deserves it all. Burning arse at the stake was the most fun I have ever had. It disappointed me it had to end.
The problem, if you could call it that, was the following day when I read the news. What I had thought as fiction had happened to arse. I should have felt some remorse, I should have felt guilt. Instead, I felt a great deal of amusement. I felt glad I enjoyed my retribution. I had found my power. Were I a superhero I would be “The Wordsmith” with the power to kill with words. Fear my dictation! Behold the power of my draft.
So as I sit in wrath writing this down, I see souls who will forever be tormented by what they have 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 feel. The happiness and the delightful peace that having my vengeance has bought me. I am content.