Good Behavior

Oooh lookie. I wrote something that ISN'T Raze for once. What it is, I'm not sure. Nothing particularly good. But its uh, a post?

Twelve years. Twelve years I've patiently paced this cage, carefully studied the definition of "good behavior," learned to swallow my pride and perfectly mimic a lamb's gentle nature while watching the world through a lion's eyes. Tomorrow, I return to the wild, where the world makes sense, where there's predators and prey and no bars between them. Freedom.

I'm so much more open minded than these compassionate liberals who manage to stare down their nose at me while saying they're proud of how "reformed" I am. Their hollow pontifications about killers still being people, people they've arrogantly deemed "sick" and needing "help," would be so much more convincing if they could look at me without their face twisting up like they just smelled shit. Me? Well if you told me that you were going to go out and beat a father of two to death with his son's own baseball bat, I'd smile and tell you to send me a postcard. I'd love to come but I'm elbows deep in entrails.

Poor you, so very sick. No. Cancer is a sickness. This? This is just me. His daddy must have hit him, his mommy must not have hugged him. Is that easier for you to swallow than the possibility that some of us are just like this? That it doesn't take a tragic backstory? That two parents held and kissed and loved a murderer the same way you do your kids? Or is that a little too close for comfort?

I don't need your pity. When I split a person open like the Red Sea, all you can see is the mud and the worms on the ocean floor. I let those beautiful red waves wash over me, feel the salty spray in my face, and walk through that moment with all the confidence of Moses. I pity you.

I've spent the last twelve years sharpening my fangs on these bars, and when they set me free, I'm going to feast on this city's underbelly until the starved beast they've kept caged is sated.