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Keep Your Head
I grew up thinking monsters were inhuman. They were the bogeyman in the closet, Pennywise in the sewer, and the unknown grab-monster under the bed.
The true face of evil stands across from me, holding my father’s head by the hair in his skeletal fingers.
“Your father didn’t play the game,” he says, his voice reminiscent of Boris Karloff. His eyes hold cauldrons of ebony evil.
I glare at him, while his henchmen hold my struggling arms. I spit at him. It hits his face.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says and nods to his henchmen.
I grew up under my father’s teachings: never do harm unless harm is done to you.
My body grows cold, ice forms on my skin, the men holding my arms cry out, their hands ice-burned. I whir.
There is a fine line between defense and revenge. As I kill, no thoughts linger in my mind, until I am stumbling along a darkened corridor lined with mirrors and the face of evil thinks to escape, having tossed my father’s head aside as if it were trash.
He cowers, finding no exit.
And there’s a fine line between defense and revenge.
end (198 words)