That’s what keeps me going. hat gets me out of my shitty bunk each morning. The single, solitary thought that one day I’m gonna get my hands on those sons of bitches, and make them pay.

Grab a smoke. Take a pull and for a minute I can forget the hate and concentrate on the smoke, feeling it burn deep in my lungs like the wrath of god itself has crept inside me, made my heart its home. Draconian it spills from my nostrils, making me appear as the demon I really am.

Breathe in, fear.

Breathe out, fury.

Breathe in, guilt.

Breathe out, rage.

I feel like I could exhale smoke without even taking a drag.

I’ve spent years tracking those fuckers down, see. Years of waking up screaming, covered in sweat, seeing faces I love clear as the day they died only to have them fade before me. They looked different once – now all I can see is fucking sadness and betrayal, and it’s my fucking fault. I can’t even picture them smiling any more, and they had more joy in their lives than I ever had in mine. Not counting the joy they gave me, course.

I used to be a tea drinker. I used to greet strangers with a grin. Things change I guess – I sure haven’t seen any strangers I’ve felt like smiling at lately, and fuck knows the last time I had a cup of tea. Whisky and cigarettes are the currency of my body now – I put enough in, it works okay for a day or two.

When I get ’em, everything will be better. I’ll be able to say my goodbyes, maybe even stop seeing him every night. Those fucking eyes. Every good memory I have of him is torn away in that look, a look he never once gave me. Trust my fucking brain to ruin you, even for myself.

I’m gonna make ’em fucking pay, baby.

I’m gonna see you smile again.

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