Just Seven Years Bad Luck?

by Matt Triewly

"You're a cunt."

It's been a long time coming, too long, but now we're face to face.

I want to believe that this is the final confrontation, but Fate is a tricky opponent.

"You're a cunt," I say again - I need for him to react

He looks at me. Impassive.

He appears stronger than me and exudes a confidence I lack, yet I know I am the one with more substance.

"You're a cunt."

He looks back at me with disdain, diminishes me as he always has.

"You could have been a nice person. You could have made my life less hard. I have lost friends because of you. I have lost love because of you. I have lost money because of you. And I am not quite nothing because that would be too merciful. You leave me a shell, a hollow empty shell echoing only with angst. You cunt."

I watch a faint ripple of a snide smile run along his lips, lips that may have once been sensuous and kind.

I feel the magma of my repressed anger rise up and vent. "You, you cunt and your fucking ego, you've ruined my fucking life. I hate you!"

I smash my right fist hard into his smug countenance - his features fragment in a violent crash and fall away. Jagged shards twist and tumble in a momentary shower of crystal and my hand burns with pain and crimson blood drips languidly upon a crimson covered floor.

Seven years bad luck they say.

Is that all?

It's a bargain. Bring me the contract, I'll sign for that.

"Cunt. Fucking cunt."

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