My father was crying silently, his shoulders shaking as he stared at his hands. My mother, looking frail and decades older than her actual age, caught my eye from across the vast expanse of the room. She offered a small, tentative, profoundly broken smile, her eyes begging for a bridge to be built between us.
I didn’t smile back. I didn’t scowl. I simply held her desperate gaze for a fraction of a second, acknowledging her existence in the room, before turning my attention completely away from her, back to the bright lights, back to the microphone, and back to my future.
I used to think revenge was a loud, violent thing. I thought it meant screaming your agonizing pain into the faces of those who hurt you until they bled from the guilt. But I was wrong.
True revenge is not destruction. True revenge is becoming an undeniable, monumental force of nature that your abusers are forced to watch from a great distance, forever knowing they have absolutely no place in your greatness.
I looked down at the pristine white fabric covering my arms. I remembered my mother trying to bat my hands away in the emergency room, treating me like a disease.
Don’t dirty the coat, I thought to myself, a profound sense of peace washing over me. I washed it with my own tears, and I bought it with my own blood.
I stepped closer to the microphone, took a deep, commanding breath, and began to speak.
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction created for entertainment purposes. Any resemblance to real persons, events, or places is coincidental.