Vengeance

Author: Poena Copyright © 2006
Blog: Tragedies of Childhood
Location: Kuwait

(This is completely based on real events)

Sheer happiness overtook me as I read “Kidnapped”, not from the horrendous tragedy, but because I have another monster to kill. Oh I cannot wait to cut that jugular vein so ever slowly, to see that rotten blood pouring and oozing out of an already decayed soul, to see the last moments of the rapist’s eyes staring back at me in shock as I roar with laughter, shining my bloody dagger in celebration and dancing to the music of chocking blood and staggered breath. Indeed, my ultimate reward.

You may look upon me as a murderer, a soulless being, yet to some I am a tool of justice. I hear the heartfelt screams that no one bids to listen to. I am the judge and jury, and my only sentence is death to whoever taints an innocent child. Do not judge me so harshly. Give thanks to my monster for creating me. Little did he know that the defenseless little girl has been replaced by a demon consumed by hate and vengeance.

I am drunk by its power, and only blood could quench my thirst. Yes I too was a victim, and I am not ashamed to reveal it, yet my past has only made me stronger for I now control my destiny. I refuse to let the darkness conquer me. I refuse to live in weakness and in shame as many have done so. I am like the phoenix risen from the ashes of my pain, to be reborn again. My memories give me strength to do the undo-able.

Before I continue, journey with me into my past so you may see where my hatred stems from. I was a young girl of six years old: innocent, pure and full of laughter. Sadly, that innocence never lasted, it was killed by vile giant hands. I screamed for help only to have it muffled. Even at that delegate age, I fought him. He thought that I feared him, but fear became my friend, and because of that, I was tortured. I was burned with matches, and to this day, I bare scars that are proof of my resistance. When the burning became numb, he took pleasures in inventing more ways to break me. Finally, my tears dried up, my voice was lost, and I could not feel my body anymore. He won the battle; what more could a child do against such evil, such horror? You might ask where all this happened, or where my parents were? My mother became ill and had to leave the country with my father, so my young brother and I were left at my aunt’s whim. How she has disgusted me, how I have loathed that part of my “noble” blood. I knew for certainty she saw my scars whenever she bathed me, but chose to look the other way so her deranged son could have his way. Years flew by and I revealed my secret to my parents. Our home shook from my father’s rage, my aunt was confronted and questioned, and they never told me what happened. All were silent as if the matter did not exist. I was bewildered and needed to know, and that was my regret. Here I was living in a fantasy world fooling myself that justice would prevail, but in reality the victim becomes the criminal. My aunt accused me of being a 6 year old seductress, a whore who preferred to lay with an old man. Funny, is it not? The day she accused me was the day her son was sentenced to death.

Her son led a pathetic life which did not surprise me. He married a well known “noble” woman and had two children, his eldest was a girl, and from what I have heard, whenever she sees her father, she trembles in fear and urinates all over herself. No one knew why, but I did. I had to hasten my deed for I did not want his child’s fate to be like mine, so one night I followed him to his hiding place, which was a small dirty apartment in Hawally where he could be alone with his companion, heroin addiction. I wore a veil to hide myself, and when he opened the door, I stabbed him. Oh the excitement that sizzled throughout my body, fear, did not exist in my heart. Instead it was swelling with hatred at the one who violated me. After closing the door, I revealed myself as he lay unable to breathe. I pulled my dagger out and placed it on his neck, only then he spoke his last words, “forgive me.” It did not soften my heart, however, I merely dragged my knife slowly over his neck, his life force coloring the floor like a red carpet.

For the first time in my life I felt peace, that night my nightmares ended. Authorities blamed his death on drug related crimes, in a small country such as ours where so many flaws exist, and with a well-known name, one could get away with anything so I took that to my advantage.

I grieve not with those whose time has come like a predator. I stalk my prey. I study them. See their likes and dislikes, their lives are like a book in which I write the final chapter and sign it with their blood. Eight worthless lives I have taken so far. It is easy to lure them in my grasp, their lust is their downfall. I only give them the illusion to do their bidding, and once they have fallen into my trap, there is no escape. For each worthless life I have taken, I have placed a small mark on my arm, a reminder of my victorious battles against pure evil. Some have seen my ritual marks, yet they do not understand nor comprehend what they symbolize.

But now you know my secret, and I do not care if you believe it or not. Many questions might run into your mind, yet I cannot answer them nor give details. I walk amongst you undetected, wearing my fraudulent mask, hiding within my true self. I leave you now for I hear from the far distance another innocent cry, but remember this whenever you hear of an unknown death that cannot be explained: know that a new mark is created, it is my destiny and it is my ritual. A victim’s ritual.

“Revenge is an act of passion; vengeance of justice. Injuries are revenged; crimes are avenged.” - Samuel Johnson