Revenge Is Far More Bitter Than It Is Sweet.

I locked my eyes on the backstabber and shuffled my black shoes slowly, quietly, so as not to bring attention to myself. It was to no avail, for he caught a reflection of my contorted face in the mirror. I could see his lips form an apology. I inched closer and he cried out "hypocrite!" I couldn't hear him. I was deafened long ago, but I later heard from passersby that this was his final word as I dug my knife between his shoulder blades and stood watching the warmth drain from his body, the blood pooling on the pavement.