I wish I were sitting in the middle of a bank vault,

and the money surrounding me was mine.

Enough to change the world and build the strength of mankind.

I would come out of the vault with my pockets full,

and go to the grocery stores.

I would pay for everyone's groceries even if they had more.

I would then ride around to as many corners and put cash in the homeless hands.

I would help all the families in the projects with bills, as many as I can.

I would pay some hospital bills of those deeply in need.

I would reverse the pattern of some billionaire's passion full of greed.

This was not how they told me it would go. When I got the flyer in the mail and finally convinced my parents that I should be allowed to go, I was ready for things to change in a big way. That’s what the flier said, too. It promised that no matter how big or small the problem was, Revenge Camp would solve it. What they didn’t cover was the potential resilience of the target. That sometimes one act of revenge was not enough. They didn’t guarantee success. That should have been a huge red flag. To be fair to me, that was in incredibly small font.

I went because Sophie was a bitch to me all through school. I went for all the teachers that said that she would get tired of being a bully, or find a new person to direct her anger towards. I went because I got in trouble when I suggested to the counselor that she see a therapist. That, I never understood.

I didn’t want to ruin her life. I didn’t expect that I would. I simply wanted her to get a taste of her own medicine, not an overdose of it. Pulling skeletons out of someone’s closet as a form of revenge is a dirty business. Even though all I did was watch over someone’s shoulder as Sophie was getting “exposed” I still got dragged through the mud with her.

They taught us that it was better if it was someone that wasn’t involved doing the real exposing of the truth. That was not the case.

Sophie did have plenty of skeletons, though. It turned out that she had been posting racist, homophobic garbage on the internet that she masqueraded as “opinion”.

Her college acceptance got revoked. On the other side, while I was pleasantly watching her life burn to the ground, I was outed. My parents acted like that didn’t change anything. I would have known they were lying, even if I hadn’t gone to revenge camp.

The problem with burning someone’s reputation to the ground is sometimes you don’t throw the match fast enough. At the end of the day, no one cared about motivation. They just saw someone that ruined another person’s life. They didn’t care about the circumstances or the other people involved. Revenge camp didn’t swoop in to save the day, either.

It was just me, holding a box of matches, next to a girl whose future was burnt down around her.

"I can sense your hesitation," a low male voice came to me. I sighed softly.

"It's not hesitation," I said, "I just want to enjoy this view for a while."

I took a deep breath. I didn't want to think about what I was about to do. Not yet. Standing on the edge of the cliff, you can easily see the town on the other side of the bay. Even today, despite the evening fog, it was impossible not to notice the distant church tower and the lighthouse.

I closed my eyes and the sea breeze was taking my breath away. From below, I heard the sound of water and the waves crashing against the rocks. I felt a chill that had little to do with the wind.

"You know ..." the man accompanying me began, "Many have tried before you. I would be lying to say that it brought any relief to them.”

I looked at him for the first time. It was hard to determine his age. His face, though marked with wrinkles, did not lose its youthful charm. He had glistening blue eyes in which I could see slight amusement but also sadness. He brushed the graying hair away from his face and sighed:

"Although I must admit that the place is really magical."

"I’ve always came here when it was really bad. I used to close my eyes and pretend that I wasn’t here, that my home was in that darkness overwhelming me and it brought me...", suddenly I broke off, ashamed of my honesty.

The stranger raised his eyebrows and smiled at me encouragingly.

"And it brought a relief", I finished quietly," Because I should not be here. I can not stand it."

There was a moment of silence. The man walked over to the edge of the cliff and looked down. He frowned and quickly moved away from the abyss.

"Why?", he asked. I thought I heard a note of impatience in his voice.

"Because I’m nobody", I answered after a moment of reflection,"I've been crossing this world for over 20 years, and I can count on one hand moments when I was feeling good."

"Wherever I go," I continued, "whatever I do ... It's all for nothing. I still hear that I don’t fit in, that I have no ambition, that I cannot behave, that I talk too much, that I talk too little, that... It's never how it should be”, a single tear rolled down my cheek and I felt that I can't speak anymore.

I felt the stranger's warm hand on my shoulder.

"It's painful," he said. He noticed that I was looking at him and added," Being underrated."

I laughed.

"But it’s not about it at all", I wiped my tears,"I'm not sad, I don't need you to comfort me."

The man looked at me surprised by my rough tone.

"Then what do you need?", He asked uncertainly.

"Revenge."

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but closed it immediately. His face gained understanding.

"I understand," he said after a moment, "Nothing drives us to act like revenge.But think my dear, are you sure you want to follow this path? There is really no return from it, ”he added sadly.

"That's just it, isn't it?", I asked in a shaky voice,"It’s not about my pain, but about theirs."

The man nodded and frowned. It was getting dark.

"Yes, their pain will be great",he confirmed,"I assume that you have already taken care of it ..."

"The letter is on my bed," I replied with vengeful satisfaction.

"You have a nasty character," the stranger said carelessly. I looked at him furiously and he, not caring, continued:

"You are not the first or the last person who's living, oh ... sorry ... I should say dying in order to play back."

I shrugged my shoulders. I was getting tired of his company. The lighthouse on the other side of the bay shone. It was a sign.

"Well, it's probably time for me," I said slowly and turned to the stranger. "You don't have to stay here with me."

"Oh, I'm afraid I have to," he said with a smile.

I looked one last time at the lights of a distant city. I glanced at the stars. I listened to the sound of the waves. I took a step forward thinking of those who I was leaving.

"Are you brave enough?", asked the old man," Or should I ask, is your anger big enough?"

"I just don't see the point," I whispered.

"Of course, it's pretty understandable," he said, nodding.

Next step. I already saw the rocks lurking beneath me.

"Do you think it will hurt?", I asked this question to delay the inevitable.

"Falling doesn't hurt. It's like flying,"said the man,” Only that the destination is defined in advance’

He laughed lightly. Fear swept over me, I couldn’t catch my breath and my heart was pounding.

The last step. I couldn’t see through my tears.

Another one.

And my leg freezes in the air.

I'm flying. I’m leaving them all behind. With the sense of guilt.

Darkness.

"I've been waiting for you here," a voice came from far away. A familiar voice.

The glittering blue eyes turned black. The flames reflecting in them were the last thing I saw.

What happened in Mikhaliv was ultimately contained, but that didn't matter to those who still lived inside the city's boarders. It was considered an inevitable death sentence, and the researchers knew that, but it didn't make anyone inside feel better.

The first to fall were most vulnerable populations, the elders and the young, helpless as their withered immune systems turned against the very thing they were supposed to protect, the flesh cracking from the fluids constantly leaking out, before finally becoming unrecognizable in life as they were in death. They were the lucky ones, as they didn't suffer the most infamous symptom of the Mortis.

Later on, with the quarantined pathogen mutating in containment, those in their prime started falling, and that's when the more insidious symptoms of the Mortis started manifesting-namely that those who were not quite dead, but suffering immense pain, would turn into nothing more than animals, attacking their surroundings for short bursts of time, sometimes for hours at a time, until they slowly expire, sitting in their own infected biomass killing them from the inside out.

For the researchers, it was a grisly task, but offered up a rare oppertunity-the chance to study a neurological, airborne pathogen in a contained area. The results that we know of came from the many expeditions and the findings that they wrote down. Unfortunately, containment was slowly proving to be insufficien, and as a result, those that weren't actively involved with field research were evacuated as an even longer containment zone was erected, trapping those who knew what would happen to them, but arguably saving the contin from turning into a dead zone.

One wonders at what point was the sunk cost fallacy worth it, considering that, to this day, the Highlands are No-Man's Land, for fear that this pathogen will spread death once again, millennium after the civilization that contained it fell apart into smaller sects due to economic issues.

It came softly, first, with the timidity of a new student matriculating halfway through the year. Transmitted through the tight spirals of familiarity and trust bred by otherness. Infecting and propagating unfettered until awareness dawned too late, that, independence is a learned behavior. That because the skill-set and will necessary to think for oneself has long since fallen out of fashion we faced this catastrophe absent inoculation. And so it was that scholarship was overtaken by the social media perpetual motion machine. Which values only the sensational. Ushering in this new decade in our great age of enlightenment awash in epidemic ignorance. Contracted through eyes, and ears precisely tuned for the reception of information which changes continuously and cannot be investigated. Bolstered by the compulsory and universal acceptance of godheads speaking and writing fast enough to recraft the world in the image of their half truths and whole lies.

White Noise reigns from the pulpits of power granted the popular and we can no longer distinguish fact from fantasy. Because, questioning is anathema to the salvation promised the obedient. Because the threat of excommunication, of cancellation, hangs over the heads of those faithful lest they do or say or think anything outside the approved messaging. Conformity, even and especially in the pretense of individuality, has become our god and our country. And it came softly. Welcomed into our homes in the shortened news cycle, the lackadaisical relationship with accuracy, and the appellation to authority usurped from the worthy by the exciting. Ours will not be death by disease, stress, war, famine, or loneliness. Rather all those and more as functions of the greater pandemic, ignorance.

I write to ignite frightened minds and remind them of the might they might be inclined to find inside the confines of life interwined with divine vibes and sublime rhymes propeling lives to rise and thrive. I write because words are magic and sentences are spells, and the thought of underutilizing ourselves is tragic so I feel frantic to go savage and ring some chilling bells. I write because letters are elements, words are molecules, and paragraphs are the means to create worlds forming books upon shelves. I write because I can.

Understand?

Your wrists burn. You know they must be purple by now. You welcome it all too willingly when he finally unties you. He’s freeing you. Freeing you to aimlessly walk around this dark hole in the ground, but it’s liberty nonetheless.

He talks. When you wouldn’t listen, the words were harsh, threatening to kill. When you gradually started to lose the energy to run, his voice softened to hush whispers. He insists that he had to do it. You’re precious. He needed you more than others did. After an eternity of hearing nothing but one voice, you have no choice but to see through their lens.

He makes himself sympathetic. He cries. He’s scared. Scared of losing you, scared of being sent to prison, or killed. You see this frightened boy, and your heart leaps.

He feeds you. Monsters and devils don’t feed others. They surely don’t do it as gently as he does. They don’t free you. They don’t rub your wrists. Their eyebrows don’t knit together worriedly. His do.

You have to accept him. With no one else around, he really is the only one who cares. You depend on him. You depend on him.

That’ll become a less frightening idea the longer you go without seeing the sun.