By Myra Sue St. Clair Baldwin
My neck muscles are all knotted up. My nerves through-out my fascia are whining obnoxiously, like a children’s choir. But I’ve got to do this. I’ve GOT to! This is my revenge. I must teach them a lesson if it kills me! I could get tied down at the stake and burned alive, a human roast. I might get tortured first. But I want them to wake up one day; fully wake up to the realization of “Oh my God, what have I done?” I want that to sink in, deep down into their bones. I want every ounce of fiber in their entire body singing my song in a squealing voice, laden with a high-pitched synthesizer sound. I want their stomach muscles tight and achy much as mine, and I want them to feel so sick to their stomach that they vomit puke-green slime. I want them to cry out to the great heavens, begging forgiveness for what they have done; for what I have had to endure.