Rage, and then more of the same but stronger. He felt it, felt it like the blood rushing through his veins. It was more than a clichéd raging current, it was a murderous intent on exacting a revenge so brutal it could be considered legally justified.
 
“Don’t,” said the voice of his victim. But he was the victim, not this useless skeletal frame wrapped in flesh. It was all about him and no one else.
 
“I will,” he replied. “You know I will. You’ve known this as long as you can remember. Do you remember?”
 
The flesh nodded.
 
“Well, then. Swallow the knife.” He pulled the flesh’s tongue out with spiked tongs, placed the tip of the blade against it, an oozing of blood beginning. The flesh winced, the flesh gurgled, the tongue of the flesh bled more profusely.
 
“Slowly,” he told the flesh, “swallow it slowly and it will hurt less at first. The pain won’t truly begin until it cuts the back of your throat.”
 
The tip disappeared into the now muted gurgle of the flesh. Soon the revenge would find its release.
 
He could tell the flesh wanted to talk but the knife was too deep, there was too much blood, the gurgling was choking the flesh into a red-faced cadaver. “What is it?” he cooed, as if to a small child whimpering about not getting candy. “What do you really want?” He pushed the knife in further, felt a splatter on his cheek, just under his right eye. The blood of the flesh was spurting out, he felt the hands of the flesh (oh how smooth they were) grabbing at him, the nails of those fingers so sharp, just like he wanted them. They were raking, clawing. He wanted them to draw his own blood.
 
“There, there,” he went on, the knife moving deeper by increments. “Doesn’t that taste so good?”
 
The flesh was dead, or at least appeared to be. Yet the fingers, the nails, still clawed their message of I Don’t Want To Die. Or was it something else? Yes, it was. The flesh was raking its message of I HATE YOU FOR KILLING ME.
 
“Now, now,” he said, smelling blood but unsure of whose, “you love the taste of revenge.”
 
If only flesh could talk.

By Jeff Callico