Revenge is a beast

meh.

Revenge will always be an ugly beast.

It’s dormant until we’re wronged or we see something wronged. Then it riles from its slumber and shakes the lichen and crust off of its scaly skin. It snorts at the wrongdoing and riles itself up at the misdeed, fuming and conspiring over it. At this point, it’s up to the person to decide when to give in. The turning point. The beast may try all it wants, and often does try, but in the end it’s a raw battle between will and temptation. The following is what happens when temptation claws itself to victory.

Scratching at the back of your mind, the beast crazes itself into a rage. It slams its fists against the walls of your heart, pounding its grime into your blood. Its rusted chains clatter against the floor as it howls and roars. Out from its eyes it sheds the blood of the innocent and in its mad cries, from the ancient tongue it bellows, the message is clear: We will only forgive when you lay bleeding.

By we, it does not mean the collective feelings of revenge. By we, it means the griever and the paragon of vengeance. Vengeance and will mold together, and no distinction can be found.

The griever sharpens the blade under a moonlit sky. He hones and refines his hatred, the tool of revenge. He tempers his hate in the slick, rancid oils of fantasy, submerging it in the liquid coals of passion, hammering over the flames as it licks his brow and burns his hairs, sparks flying, tears and sweat pouring, heart racing at the same beat as the beast’s pounding.

The becomes drunk with rage and vengeance and limps towards the object of his ultimate fantasy, his scapegoat for all of his faults. Every mistake he ever made, every dream that flew from his grasp, he knew it was their fault. In this state, he knew it because he believes there is no any other way for it to be. There would be no responsibility because it was not his action to begin with, it was this defiler of innocent minds, begetter of pain. He approaches waringly, and it is in these last moments the beast breaks free of its chains and hurls itself into the griever’s own mind. Revenge shifts the griever into a primal paroxysm of hatred, a fight-or-flight screaming bleeding writhing clawing gurgling kicking screeching momentary crusade and the beast’s eyes roll back in its head as it tingles with paroxysms of ecstasy and relief, and finally serving its purpose, finally living in the moment it craved for all along, it slices its own throat and slumbers once more.

There’s no beast anymore, just the husk of a person left. His dull, bright hatred cleaves a harsh valley into the victim’s heart just before it vanishes as sudden as the beast does. The griever, now fulfilled his goal, finds no other way to satiate this innate desire, for it is long gone. All he is left with now is himself and the mess he’s made.

The result will not be pretty; it never is. It’s always ugly.