I think a lot about revenge for a person who doesn’t think of herself as “vengeful.” I really do believe that living well is the best revenge, which is why I try to live exceptionally well.
I don’t. I struggle a lot, as most people my age do. I have vet bills, student loans, credit card debt. I also have good friends, a wonderful family, and work that genuinely fills me with joy. I have a book coming out in a week. That, too, is revenge.
Is it okay to harbor resentful feelings, I ask myself. Does it make me a bad, unkind, heartless person?
It might. So I try to balance it out. I think about revenge, and try to do something nice for somebody else. I think about revenge, and I set it aside to work, instead. I think about revenge, and how I don’t actually care about it anymore, because I have better things to fill my time with than to fixate on people who went out of their way to make me miserable years and years and years ago.
Anyway, here’s a drabble.
(n.) from Proto-Indo-European *mer- , for “to die,” and *mang, for “embellish”
A person who murders by trade; a hired killer.
Her husband scoffed at her when he found her holding his sword, as if a woman could wield a blade. “Go back to your weaving,” he’d said, seizing it from her hand none too gently.
She did, as always. She wove him a beautiful shirt of fine linen. He wore it to his funeral.
She was famed for her weaving. There were few who could weave as she did, so neatly, so swiftly, so cunningly.
Nobody noticed that her clients were women whose husbands died in mysterious circumstances soon after they paid her a visit, all in their finest clothing.