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Violence: Suffered vs. Inflicted
There is a kind of violence the world rarely dares to speak of. When we talk about trauma, our minds always race to the image of the victim — those who have suffered, endured, survived.
But there exists another kind of wound, one carved not by pain received, but by pain delivered. Violence inflicted.
Imagine a person who has endured years of abuse — humiliation, deprivation, sleepless nights — until something inside finally snaps. At that point, the mind fractures, and reason collapses into insanity so absolute that the only imaginable escape is the physical erasure of the tormentor.
Not a measured act, not a calculated decision — but a brutal eruption, unstoppable, unjudged, elemental. A blind fury, foaming at the mouth like a rabid animal; the hands become weapons, the body a storm. It is no longer despair, for despair requires thought. This is the annihilation of thought itself — a sacred rapture of violence that consumes and destroys everything it touches.
When a gentle soul reaches such a threshold, something inside them shatters forever. The wall breaks, and beyond it, something monstrous emerges — something no human language can truly name. It acts without purpose, without conscience, without logic. And once awakened, it never goes back to sleep. It follows you.
Not as a memory of horror suffered... but as horror committed.
They say we all possess darkness — bad habits, cruel impulses, unkind tendencies we learn to live with because they make us human. But what if the darkness within us were not human at all?
What if it were something alien — something that stares back when you look into yourself, and you realize it is you?
The sickness does not come from what one might do again — it comes from knowing that such madness was ever possible.
Discipline may soothe the mind, may order the chaos, may restore routine. But scars... they do not fade.
I am a survivor.
