His thoughts were interrupted by the rattling sound of the jailer’s truncheon run across the cell bars.
‘Whom are you planning to kill now John? You lousy freakin’ bastard’
The prickly comment made him feel nothing.
His heart was stone now. And his world, cold.
It was funny to hear his own words being used to accuse him.
And they took him back to where he left off. The persistent pounding.
It went on for an hour, which, he swore, still wasn’t satisfying.
Eventually, the victim had succumbed to his injuries.
‘The Victim’, they’d called him.
But John would beg to differ.
He would never in a million years forget, the night that his daughter came home crying.
Neither would he forget the week after, when he saw her hanging from the ceiling.
He felt the world pause. And then start to crumble.
An ominous silence loomed over his life, which had now lost its meaning.
But not a tear was let out. He chose not to.
For all his anger would vent out only through the fight.
He lived to see his end. He was hell-bent.