Mangled

They threw me to the wolves.

And watched, as my skin turned red and my eyes widened in pain. They listened as I howled in agony, hurt rippling through my very being, tearing it apart and causing my voice to go hoarse with the effort. They felt my arms reach out, a last-ditch effort to hold on, hold on to a reality I thought was mine to be happy in. A reality I had thought was mine to enjoy.

They watched on calmly as my bones popped and my skin stretched and as I lay there in the aftermath, panting for breath in a pool of my own sorrow, they laughed. They laughed in contempt, with no regard for my well-being, pointing fingers and slapping knees at the poor creature in the middle.

Everywhere I turned, they called me names. Monster, they said. An abomination.

The people muttered around me as I tried to pick out my friends from the crowd, my vision swimming as tears clouded my eyes. Making frantic eye contact with one, my eyes widened in relief, only to be frozen over when the sneer on his face registered in my tangled thoughts. They'd turned their backs on me. My last ray of hope had fizzled out.

My attention was snatched as something hit my uncovered calf and I cried out, watching a rivulet of blood escape, a jagged stone lying beside the wound. In more than one spot, my skin split open, vulnerable to attack. My whole being tensed up as more and more people began to pelt my poor broken body with harsh stones, each one followed by a heart-piercing curse.

And I hung my head through the torture, sobbing loudly, my body curling into a fetal position, trying to protect what was left of my broken self as people hurled curses at my prone form, the pain soul-shattering as I heaved laboured breaths filled with the sense of betrayal.

Hours or maybe days later, my body numbed, my psyche protecting itself from further harm by rejecting what I knew as reality.

As if realising there was no more fun to be had, one by one they walked away from me. The freak show was over. It was their first mistake.

They threw me to the wolves and it mangled me.

I don't know how long I lay there, in a pool of my own blood and tears, desperately asking for the torment to stop, my destroyed and defenceless form shuddering in soul-numbing pain with every stuttering breath.

Until slowly, my senses returned, my pain turned to anger and anger to crushing rage. I fuelled my rage into action, pushing my limits until even I couldn't tell if I was a monster or not.

Every drop of blood, every tear they made me shed turned into liquid fire, burning through my veins as I bided my time.

Calling upon every strand of strength I had left, I heaved myself to the wasteland, where no one would dare follow me and I proclaimed myself King.

I swore revenge since justice had long abandoned me. They still hurled profanities from the periphery of the wasteland.

Monster, they said. Abomination, they screamed.

And I quietly used it as fuel to keep going until the rivers of lava had begun to do my bidding and the terrain grew red, dry like my soul.

Years earlier, they'd screamed profanities.

Years later, they still screamed.

Mercy, they screamed this time. We did no wrong, they sobbed on their knees.

No one recognised the beaten little boy in the beast that had them begging for their lives on their knees.

They threw me to the wolves and it mangled me but they never thought I'd come for them next.

As the red fire burned hotter and the screams grew louder, the monster smiled. The river of lava flowed, burning all those in its wake, the screams riding up to a cacophony, warning everyone against the danger of sin.

Those that heard the screams ran far away, spreading the word, the story of the little broken boy lost to the sands of time. However, the legacy remained and to this day, everyone fears his name enough to not utter it in jest.

The fires of hell created out of his sorrow, the devil sits on his throne appeased at long last.

Retribution was mine.