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Retribution

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Written by Arian Mabe (Amethyst Mare)

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TW:

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This monologue, written in first person present tense, contains heavy themes pertaining to abusive relationships and mental health.

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Take a seat.

No, really, fucking do.

I ain't here for you, but I'm here for me, and, really, that must seem awfully fucked up. You there, up on your high horse, thinking you're all that. You can't see yourself as anything other than that, can you? I'd like to say that it's a nice life to feel that way, to be so impervious, but I've seen just a handful of the lives you destroyed, or tried to destroy, so forgive me if my opinion isn't quite the same.

You tried to destroy my life too. And I clawed back every dirty, muddied, ripped up fucking inch of it from you.

What's that? I swear too much. I have reason to. I've got an awful lot of reasons here. Would you like to hear them.

Sit the fuck down.

I'm not done with you yet.

Ah, that's better. A touch of fear... Maybe you'll know now, just a little bit, how we felt. I'm not special. I'm not alone. I'm not perfect. I'm not the one. I'm just one, one person, and I never deserved to be ripped down into nothing by you.

And there you go, off again. La-dee-fucking-da - ain't your life a fucking glorious one full of sunshine and rainbows? You seem to have done well, you're telling others you are - when that suits you, of course. When it doesn't suit you, when you need to claw someone in closer, tug at the puppet strings, well, you'll say that your life is anything that it needs to be just to get what you need.

You're all the same. You have many names and wear many hats, your kind of person. You're all the fucking goddamn same.

It's the rest of us that have to pick up the slack, but here I am, eight years down the line, jumping at doors closing, fearing tiny sounds, trying to make myself seem small and insignificant, trying to keep everyone happy. Because if I keep everyone happy maybe I won't be in trouble, maybe I won't get screamed at, maybe everything will be okay then.

Newsflash: it was never okay. A fallacy to fall into, to try and try and try and always be scorned and shunned for never being able to "do". Because if all I did was "try" and I never "did" (i.e. meaning that I got things right, for once, and did the right thing), that meant that I was a shit person, a terrible person, a horrible person, someone who didn't care enough, that was fucking up, failing.

Need I go on? Ah, you don't want to hear that. You'd rather hear about you, isn't that right? You do so like the sound of your own voice, the most important person in the world, hm? That's what you think.

Dirt on my shoe is better than you. No tears would be shed for the loss of you, but many of relief may trickle down cheeks that have strained taut in the face of you.

You need to listen.

You need to hear this.

We went unsaid, unspoken, for too long, quietly picking up the shattered remnants of our lives after the whirlwind of you stormed through. You snarled and you stomped and you threw your claws in the air, eyes blazing and fangs flashing. You knew that you could get your way, because none of us were unique and you played the same games with all of us, drawing us in, twisting us, forcing us down.

So, why the hell is it us that are scrimping and saving to tease into therapy that might not even work, trying to find something, anything, that might make us feel like the people we were before you howled into precedence? Because I'll tell you right fucking now that you're no more important in all reality than the rest of us, the line of broken souls in your wake, cast aside where they leapt, straining to be free of you.

Years later, the tap drips, a heartbeat quickens. The fear is still there, sordid and sickening curling through the pit of a stomach like a sickness that never truly goes away.

You never deserved to have your claws in me, in us. Sob for us, let us see you bleed, let us see if, indeed, we're all the same, that everything is the fucking same on the underneath.

Because it's not and any blade that sinks into you will spill forth the horror and the sickness of your own body, words and threats, sickness and poison. On and on and on, it flows, it comes, it rushes forth in a haste, for your own body is not a temple and, even for a soul as decrepit as you, there is no sanctity to be had in your body or your mind.

Broken, doomed, fallen, failing.

You break down those that are what they are, because you are already broken. And there's no putting you back together, piece by piece. Because that has to come from a want that's deep inside, a feeling that something is wrong, that one who holds the power to change themselves in their hands can change, can do better, can improve.

We can learn, we can change. It's not easy, but we can do it. One like you, on the other hand... We hold no hope, though maybe it's something too we'd like to see. We'd like to know that there will be no more lives harmed at your hands, that your joker's grin will not be painted on any more walls, that no more mirrors will be avoided for fear of seeing your horror reflected in us, in them.

It was never our burden to bear. You forced it on us anyway.

The anger is there and then it is gone, for it does not serve us, even if it simmers, bubbling away, minds unable to understand the why of it all. There are no answers. There's no change. There's no difference in the world around you, the tattered remains of what you sought to destroy. We can't magically flick a switch and make it all right again, though we wish we could.

You'll keep on, spilling poison forth, breaking others down into the image of you, what truly lies beneath the surface. And no will know the horrors you caused.

We can try, but we cannot protect those to come. We couldn't even protect ourselves.

For us, there is no retribution.

But there fucking should be.