by Rebekah Postupak
I want vengeance. Crave it. THIRST for it, do you hear me? Those vicious hooligans—no, vandals! delinquents!—have deprived me for the last time, and I’m taking my own back.
Please understand, I am normally an easy-going kind of woman. Years of pain and abuse (yes, I dare use that word, ABUSE!) have melted my unyielding steel into pathetic, worthless, rippable aluminum foil. I hate myself for it, but at least in allowing the persecution day after uncomplaining day, I’ve managed to fashion a kind of peace between myself and my tormenters. It’s not a real peace, of course, but it’s the only way I’ve found to survive this life.
They are hammering at the door, demanding entry. Their furious shouts make the walls tremble. I hear the white rage of their strategizing, feel it seeping beneath the door and across the cold, hard floor, where it’s now crawling up my legs. I tremble too, tears stinging the corners of my eyes, but I will.not.give.in.
176 tear-stained flash words that needed writing.