You ask about revenge, and yes, I think I can write about that.
I wish you were a more attractive person. I have a tendency to identify with the physically repulsive among us. I take their side out of habit. I inhabit the flesh of the grossly overweight, the badly scarred, the ones with skin diseases or a hair lip. I feel myself to be the butt of so many jokes and jibes that I am quick to stand for them and take their punches into my own equally unwanted flesh. But you are ugly. Hideous. Your bitter soul has spilled over and eaten at the flesh. Your ugliness is bone deep and I could never cut it out. There would be nothing left of you, no scrap of flesh worth coddling back to health.
So, ugly as you are, I take my revenge quickly and with a sharp pleasure. Can I write about revenge? I never have. Lets try it now. Let us see how I may debase you as you have attempted to debase me, just one in a little series of projects for you. Bully that you are. A systematic taking down of people who have done nothing to deserve it but to push against your inflated ego for a moment, listening to the stale heated air hissing away, pissing into the bluster.
Hog tied. This is how you would be for me. Tied like a pig, and of course your arse is raised, that hideous heap of flesh that reeks of things pulled dead from the sea. Weed from your arse, slippery and skanky, weed from the very deep of the ocean laden with bottom feeders and the clack of crustaceans fiddling in the bitter tangle.
I place you on the strand, in this, my written revenge. I place you at the turn of night to day, at the coming on of the tide. You are buffeted, wrack and ruin, pale bloated flesh and your face flushed red from holding out the tide.
I could stay and watch the crab-nip and the shark-frenzy tearing scraps of over-blown meat from those bad bad bones, but there is no pleasure in it. I know that hog-tied, face down, this will end badly for you. You would want me to watch, to feel sorry for you, because everyone that has seen you knows how much you love an audience, the sound of your pathetic voice pontificating, so much bilge belched into a cringing captive crowd.
The sweetest revenge will be my disinterested footprints, the toes turned away from your torture, even the shape of my bare feet disappearing in the next wash of salt to your wounds.
My revenge is tattooed on my back, in the absence of my body, in my clean clear conscience as you draw a limited edition of laboured breaths.