The Rules Of Revenge

RN | THREE (pt. 1)

I LEARNED A lot from Uncle Sam while he was alive. Everything I knew about fighting, tricking and deceiving people for my own gain, and being successful had been taught to me from the age of ten and onwards. It wasn't always roses and sunshine, though. There were times in the four years I spent with him when I didn't exactly appreciate his wisdom, as any stubborn, ADHD child battling mental illnesses would, but looking back, I was quite grateful that he took me out of a semi-decent foster care house and made me his pupil. After all, how many fourteen year olds could write on their resumes that they had taken down not one, but multiple gang leaders on their own? I presumed, not many.

He was a marvelous teacher, patient and understanding, but the one thing he could not teach me, however, was the art of moving on. With pain, ultimately, came anger—and, it came in many different forms. I happened to have the honor of experiencing all types: rightful anger, which was a quiet, simmering kind that chewed me from the inside out and was the most motivating; revengeful anger, during bouts of which I often found it helpful to hit the gym for it often made my tongue lax and my actions clumsy; and passive anger, which was easily confused with the first kind, but was quite different.

I was almost always passively angry. It was the type of anger that tormented not the heart but the soul, and thus caused me more grief and pain than anything else in the world. It created a void right above my stomach, underneath my ribs, that sucked my entire life source out of me for it constantly reminded me of my loss. My emptiness was tangible and potent, and my anger audible. In my ears, regardless of time and place, I could always hear it say, they're gone, and you're alone, and there's nothing you can do to right the wrong that has been done to you. Your pain is yours alone and no one can ever understand what you're going through. You are alone.

With my soul in this mental prison, where there was no judge to acquit me nor any trial to prove my innocence, but only anger and sadness—one vessel, two souls—I couldn't blame him for not being strong enough to break me out. As a parting gift, nevertheless, he managed to sneak in some tools past my barricaded walls and it was during times like these that I found them extremely handy.

He told me once, "He who is the most riled is the easiest target," and he couldn't have been more right. I had yet to fight many of my uphill battles, but on the Independence Day of the United States of America, only one was in progress, and his words could not have been more apt. To avoid death, or defeat, both horrible fates, it was essential that a warrior understood the winds for they could say a thousand words with just one touch.

I licked the tip of my index finger and raised in the air. The gentle summer-night breeze spoke volumes. Defense, it said, and I couldn't agree more. When the cards were in my favor and my enemy was angrier than me, it never hurt to be defensive. Tonight would be my proof.

I wasn't exactly sure where Santiago and his posse lived, but judging by the short amount of time it took the procession of black Sudan cars to pull into street below me, I guessed not very far. As the neatly lined up cars braked in unison, synchronized to a rhythm I couldn't hear, and Santiago's men scoped out the land below before allowing him to exit his vehicle, I turned my head towards the river and zoomed into the boats floating into my view.