Freewrite #4. This vignette was written as one of a series of quick exercises designed to be both an outlet for refining vague ideas and an opportunity to improve the flow and dynamics of my writing.

You thought you were safe. You thought yourself among friends, but you know better now. You can feel it building in your gut, roiling within you like a caged beast, pounding on the fragile walls of your body, and you know that you been betrayed. You know.

At first, it is just uncomfortable, a heavy dread in the pit of your stomach, a headache building behind your eyes. Soon, though, it becomes much worse. Your vision wavers and weaves dizzyingly, and you clutch at the table, trying desperately to steady yourself against the vertigo. You burn, and sweat breaks out on your forehead as you fumble for a chalice of water, the world spinning around you. You won't reach it, of course, since I moved it away while the others were watching you. We can't take the risk of the water diluting the poison, after all.

Oh, don't look at me with that terrified, hurt expression and expect me to take pity on you. I'm quite enjoying watching you die, actually. I am waiting in quite a bit of anticipation for the -- ... ah, yes. Just like that. Your stomach is cramping in powerful spasms, now, clenching you double with its violent contractions. It's agony of the worst kind, the beginnings of a reaction that will end up with your own muscles tearing your insides to bits, your organs grinding themselves to jelly within your skin.

Scream, damn you. I want to hear how much you are suffering. Open those hateful, steely eyes and let me see your torment in them, let me see how hurt you are by my betrayal. I want to enjoy every second of your suffering, every heartbeat of my revenge, so scream. Scream! Yes! ... just like that. Scream for me as your intestines knot and twist, as your heart stutters and stammers, as your head pounds and your eyes boil.

I chose this for you with utmost care, so enjoy these last few, hellish moments. Think of all the things you've regretted in your life, and when you do, see the terrified face of my mother as you slew her husband. Hear the frantic screams of my brothers and sisters as you burned them alive within their home. Feel the pain of a woman who hated you, yet loved the son you forced on her body. She taught me, father. She showed me how to see the truth behind your lies, the darkness behind your pretty words, and what I have seen sickens me. You sicken me. And now, I have sickened you.

I must play the part, of course, so here, let me hold your head as you convulse. Let me wipe your sweatslick hair back from your eyes and lean in close to comfort you. Let the last sound you ever hear be my voice whispering in your ear.

"Your body matches your soul, now, father, sick and twisted at the core, rotting from the inside out." You barely have the strength to grip my arm, but you try, fixing me with a word written in a gaze. Why? I can only shake my head at your obtuseness. I thought you would have figured it out by now.

As your last, agonized breath rattles in your chest, I lean down and give you the only gift you are owed for my existence. "Because I am my mother's son."