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I couldn't write anything, I wanted to write prose again, sooo I found a prompt for myself.
________
I never wanted to hurt him. I only wanted to go back and change things. Little had I known, that memories fade with time, but they don't take the pain with them. Like fleeting cotton tufts, memories are blown into the sky, for people to find muse in, but the pain, the pain remains as definite, as stubborn, as inexorably loyal as a birth mark. It'll never leave you alone.
I did not know, I still don't. What pain is, what loyalty is — I don't know, I cannot.
The day I was released from prison, I took a long walk along the road that took to the neighborhood park. The tarmac path, the road side vendors, hawking, and yowling. Little kids accompanied with their adults, little kids not accompanied with their adults, people sitting in shanties, drinking from paper cups, school kids walking with their shoulders hunched, and voices mighty, as though they are invincible . . . Everything was the same, same old vulnerability loitering on the road, among these clueless humans, who have no idea, that even monsters look like humans.
That evening, I took a bus down Oleston Avenue, I would never forget his address. 10 years in prison must have have weekend my physical strength, but mentally, I was very, very focused. I have never felt guilt, regret, that feeling of loss when you finally realize that your innocence is gone, for good. I've never touched these emotions with my mind. But I have my self-respect to fondle, to pamper, and breed.
This man, I had promised I would not lay hands on his family. And I had. I have to go back to him, force him into surrendering this promise. I'll make him hate himself for ever asking for such an obligation. Only then, when he finally regrets ever begging for mercy, mewling like a helpless cripple, to make a promise out of my uncontrollable temptations, will I have the closure I want. I cannot walk this land, made from the soil of rotten blood, when I have a broken promise on my record.
I did not know, as I don't know many things, that the moment he would see me, his knees would betray and tumble down, his nerves would go cold, his hands shivering, his mouth trembling, eyes that would freeze. But it happened. The fear in those eyes, how they would numb, and slacken down, the fear of a prey . . . but I was not there to kill him, only talk. So when he pressed his hands together, just like he had ten years ago, that unexpected begging, it changed something in me. I did not want to instill fear, I only wanted to . . . enjoy, and if they cannot enjoy with me, then what is the point?
