Stabbing a man with a knife
is surprisingly easy.
About as difficult
as scooping frozen ice cream
with a metal spoon.
A little pressure.
A little persistence.
A little willingness
to ignore the screaming.
Entire lives have ended
for less effort.
But there is something about a man
you can kill
much quicker than you can kill him.
His identity.
Kill that,
and what remains is mostly anatomy.
A collection of organs
fulfilling contractual obligations.
A heartbeat paying rent
to a corpse still awaiting paperwork.
Mine wasn't killed.
Mine suffered
a failed assassination attempt.
Repeatedly.
Knives buried so deep
they snapped inside the wounds.
Twisted.
Abandoned.
Left to rust beneath the skin
until the blood itself
began tasting metallic.
It wasn't murder.
Murder is honest.
Murder admits intent.
These people wanted something far more sophisticated.
They wanted revisions,
until only mutation remained.
They wanted
to turn a man into a rumour,
a reputation into graffiti,
a voice into background noise,
a name into an apology,
to assassinate a person
without ever having to explain
where the body went.
And they almost succeeded.
Almost.
Funny thing about identity.
It heals incorrectly.
Scar tissue develops opinions.
And opinions,
unlike wounds,
do not close neatly.
They linger.
They compare notes.
They remember dates
other people misplace intentionally.
Today,
I stand here
with affidavits where the weapons should be.
Chronologies.
Statements.
Evidence.
Witnesses.
And suddenly,
everyone discovers morality.
Cute, isn't it?
Now you speak of restraint.
Now you speak of forgiveness.
Now you speak of healing.
Now you speak of collateral damage.
Now you speak of consequences.
As though consequences
were a natural disaster
and not a receipt of owed dues.
As though stitches were an acceptable substitute for skin.
Funny how morality always arrives after the forensic reports.
Where were these sermons
when the knives were still entering flesh?
Where was all this moral architecture
when demolition was being conducted without permits?
Where were your righteous amygdalas
when character assassination
was being conducted
like a community development project?
At what exact point
does spectatorship become participation?
How many witnesses
does a lynching require
before it qualifies as a constitutional joke?
You watched.
That is the part
you keep trying to misplace.
You watched.
Crowds are fascinating that way.
Nobody wants blood on their hands.
So they outsource the stabbing
and volunteer for the audience.
Everybody wants innocence.
Nobody wants responsibility.
Everybody wants innocence.
Nobody wants fingerprints.
Everybody wants the story.
Nobody wants authorship.
Everybody wants the execution.
Nobody wants handwriting on the warrant.
You stood there
while they picked at me
like crows discovering roadkill.
Piece by piece.
Excuse by excuse.
Joke by joke.
Lie by lie.
Until even my shadow
looked exhausted.
And now,
when consequences finally learn their names,
you wish to discuss ethics.
No.
Save your morality.
Save your wisdom.
Save your motivational posters
and your discount spirituality.
I have lost appetite for all of it.
Because there are only two categories here.
Those who twisted the knife.
And those who took measurements.
One committed the act.
The other filed it under acceptable losses..
The only difference between them and me
is they believed
power could bury accountability.
They believed institutions
were decoration.
Laws were suggestions.
Consequences were mythology.
And justice was merely a bedtime story
poor people told themselves
to make sleep arrive faster.
The only difference between them and me
is they mistook silence for absence.
Mistook patience for escape.
Mistook filing cabinets for graveyards.
They looked at paperwork the way arsonists look at smoke — certain the evidence was leaving with the wind.
They believed archives forgot. That dates decayed. That signatures expired. That memory was merely a witness with poor attendance.
And so they behaved with the confidence of people who mistake an unopened door for a missing room.
I disagreed.
I still do.
Because the amusing thing about law
is that it does not require rage.
It does not require forgiveness.
It does not require closure.
It does not require healing.
It does not even require satisfaction.
It merely requires evidence.
And evidence,
unlike guilt,
does not suddenly develop a conscience
when the invoice arrives.
So no.
This is not revenge.
Revenge is emotional.
Revenge seeks catharsis.
Revenge wants blood.
I want records.
Dates.
Statements.
Evidence.
Witnesses.
A trail so long
it stops resembling paperwork
and starts resembling a procession.
The same constitution
they believed themselves above
is now the sound
they mistake for thunder.
Not because I became a monster.
But because they spent so long
trying to manufacture one
they forgot something crucial.
Monsters require belief.
Evidence does not.
Monsters are anecdotal.
Evidence is matter of fact.
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