The Taste of Vengeance
The dream had been occurring for the better part of nine years now, closer to ten. But was dream an adequate word to describe the horrors that flitted through your mind each time you lay your head down on the pillow? Ever since you took your first life in malice, the dreams had become more fervent, more constant. They bespoke of things you were entitled to, things you should have, things you needed.... Things like vengeance.
Ten years since it occurred- since you made a choice that you haven't yet regretted.
He had visited upon occasion. The dream man, the horror- fully encased in his armor of spikes and chains, skulls impaled upon poles at his back as a standard. Two sick looking blades at his side, curved and recurved with a serrated edge. The hollow front of his helmet occasionally dripping a scorpion or tarantula, sometimes a snake. His hands and arms hidden by massive gauntlets and interlocking plates that seemed to constantly ooze blood.
He had told you of what this world owed you- of what you were entitled to, of how this world should be yours. If his words weren't persuasive, he took to revisiting your pain upon you, reminding you in vivid detail of the day the light lost you- and you clenched your fists and gritted your teeth and in that moment, he was everything in your world.
Finally, on the tenth anniversary of the event and your first kill in malice- he appeared outside the dream.
"I have a gift for you, come with me." The statement wasn't a question, rather a direct order that held promises of punishment for disobedience. But you couldn't help but love the figure, he who had comforted you with promises of retribution as the night wore on and the world continued to seem to hate you.
He was father now.
