A/N: This says everything that I can not. Gomen if it offends people.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
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Coddle the Rage
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Hands. I can still feel them. Owning my body and branding my soul. Teaching me shame without a word. I've sought a reason for years, but I've never found it. I guess there really was no reason. But I have os much trouble comprehending that. The human mind seeks answers in everything. What's a person to do when they can't find that reason? Do they slowly go insane from holding it all in? Or do they bottle the emotion for all the world to see.
I suppose I don't do either. I take my rage... and I coddle it. The rage... coddle the rage. That phrase seems to me the only appropriate one to use. I can't ignore it. It's always there. I can't let them now exactly how much it hurts or they would laugh. They always find something to laugh at me for. I take my anger, and I hold it closely within me. As though it were something precious for the world never to see. But someday, they will see. When I have coddled and coaxed my rage into a full-blown case of ... Something. I have no idea. I suppose I write these pages to soothe myself should the beast within get out of control before it is time. And someday when it is time, I will have my vengeance. Not only on the bastard who hurt me, but on others like him, those who harbored him, and any who dare to stand in my way by thrusting what is called law in my face.
It is the law that keeps him out of prison where he belongs. It is the law that tells me I am lying. It is the law that did not serve me. Protect and serve my ass. So, when the time comes, I will become the law. And I will be unstoppable. Pompous words yes, but they are back by a hardened heart. Those hands, I see them every time I close my eyes. I see them whenever I wake up, and every moment I am not in the tortured land they call sleep. Every minute, of every hour, of every day for the rest of my life. I see them. Those hands. I long to see them differently. Mangled, covered in blood as he screams for mercy. Mercy I will never give him. I long to see the fingers cut off one by one, crushed beneath my heel and then served to him on a silver platter.
It's nothing more than what he did to my innocence, and it's nothing less than what he deserves. They say the vengeance belongs to God. God left me. God abandoned me. I have no need for useless, vain deities who ignore the cries of children and those in need of his care. I'll kill him too. I'll skewer him like a shish kabob and then roast him over the open flames of that fiery hell he's been spouting off about for the last few millennia.
And then he will see, they will all see. You don't fuck with Quatre Raberba Winner.
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Quatre blinked, a slow smile spreading across his face. He shut down the computer and rose from his seat, grabbing his jacket. It was time to go. Trowa was waiting.