Now, with finding your own justice…
Well, his therapist wouldn’t be happy about that—not at all. In fact, he’d shit his pristinely ironed pants if he only knew what his sessions had led to.
Because they led to this.
In fact, they didn’t heal that hole, but instead, they made him a monster.
This revenge-fueled beast who had no choice but to find justice himself since the world had done him dirty.
That had become the one and only mission in his miserable life.
But it didn’t start that way.
No.
Not even close.
What it started with was a scared boy who was thrusted into the spotlight when that particular day happened.
It then spiraled into a nightmare where he couldn’t turn around without being reminded of who he was.
What he was.
For he was trapped in that cycle of sin and destined to never escape it.
It had been horrible, and he never wanted to go back to that place again. Yet, here he was, returning to the scene of the crime and getting the revenge that he so desperately craved.
And deserved.
Innocence died that day, and what came from it fractured him into pieces.
The cameras.
The media.
The onslaught.
It had been the perfect storm, and he was what was created in it. Instead of a bastion of calm, it created a tsunami of rage.
Rage he couldn’t contain.
And that brought him to the here and now.
When he heard them screaming, begging for their lives, it healed a little bit of him that was still wounded.
Watching them succumb to the pain in the worst possible way helped heal a part of him that haunted his head as he got the news of that terrible death.
Seeing them finally get what they had coming to them healed a part of him that saw his mother weep tears of blood on her knees when she’d been told the horrible truth.
Yeah, it was healing that hole in him.
And it made him stronger.
Meaner.
Angrier.
Where therapy didn’t work, except to split his soul into pieces, this certainly was making him feel a whole hell of a lot better.
