Cold-Blooded Vengeance

There he lay on the icy steel table where so many have departed before. There was not another soul around, besides our two, soon to be united. Our hearts beat, gradually pumping blood in unison.

It was long ago when I had lent a helping hand to break him free from hunger. Yet, when he had had his fill, I was starving, in the same position as he once was; nevertheless, no sanctuary arrived. Only the gnawing affliction from malnutrition and a biting winter wind have kept my heart ablaze, and my mind fixed upon receiving my pound of flesh.

Waiting, silently waiting, for a movement from his eyes. The pain of prolonging revenge drove me mad. There are daggers in men's smiles; yet, I now hold them in my hands. Anxiety fluttered within me, as I knew that he was close to awakening. I knew. I felt it deep inside, in the depths of my soul, in my gut. His eyes opened and closed simultaneously with his fluttering aorta. Slowly he moved his hand to his head, only to be restrained by the fetters placed around his wrists. His pupils widened, darting to and fro, trying to rationalize, theorize, understand what has transpired.

I crept into view, a silhouette from the shadow realm, the abyss in the corner of the chilly, solemn room. A nefarious, wicked grin crawled upon my face, while a look of bewilderment writhed upon his. "Too long have I waited to reap what I have sown," I whispered. "In desperate times, I lent a helping hand, only to be shown an empty palm in return." I reached for my instrument of vengeance- the cold, serrated, metallic terror. He broke out a cold sweat as I slid the dull edge of the blade across his skin. "Patiently have I been lingering to be recompensed for my just actions. Sitting idly by while hunger eats at me, tearing and chewing the very fibers of my being. Now, it is my turn to be filled, my chance to be repaid, my desire to be fed. I want my pound of flesh..."