04-28-2025, 11:42 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-28-2025, 11:42 PM by Jay Carpenter.)
The words hung in the air between them like a knife suspended by a single fraying thread.
Jay sat frozen, arms crossed so tightly across his chest he felt the strain in his shoulders. His jaw was clenched so hard it hurt. His breath came slow, measured by force of will alone.
Every part of him screamed to move.
To lash out.
To tear this man—this Amengual—apart with the rage simmering so close to the surface.
Their blood.
Their terror.
And now, here sat the son of that legacy, speaking calmly of forgiveness.
Of peace.
Jay’s hands twitched against the fabric of his sleeves. It would be so easy. Too easy. To cross the table and put his hands around the bastard’s throat. He could imagine it clearly. The jolt of impact. The satisfying crack of cartilage under pressure. The brief, wild flash of fear in Matías’s eyes before they went dark.
He wanted it.
The violence hummed in his bones like an old song, too familiar to forget.
The silence stretched on. Growing heavier with every second.
It pressed against Jay’s ribs, made his skin itch with the unbearable weight of choosing.
Finally, he stood. The chair shrieked against the tile, sharp enough to flinch them, if they were the flinching kind. He wasn’t. The bastard just sat there, calm, steady, as if he knew every storm Jay could summon and had already decided to weather it.
Jay turned away, his fists shaking. The rage had nowhere to go. It clawed under his skin, tore at the inside of his throat.
And so he drove his knuckles into the wall.
The impact was jarring. Pain blooming bright and immediate across his hand. The drywall caved inward with a hollow crack, a fine spray of dust puffing out around his bleeding knuckles.
It didn’t help.
Not really.
But it was better than what he could have done.
Better than what he wanted to do.
He stood there, breathing hard. The pain singing up his arm, grounding him. Reminding him that he still had a choice. That he hadn’t crossed that line he desperately wanted to cross.
Slowly, intently, he turned back to face Matías.
The man hadn't moved. Hadn’t even blinked. He just sat there, steady as bedrock, letting Jay rage in his orbit without flinching.
Jay hated him a little for that.
Respected him a little too.
He wiped the blood from his knuckles on his pants with a rough swipe. The sting sharp and deserved.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, scraped raw from holding back everything he wanted to say.
“I can’t forgive them,” he said. His throat felt torn with the truth of it. “It's impossible.”
Jay sucked in a breath, tasting the iron tang of his own anger still burning the back of his tongue. He flexed his battered hand once, twice.
“But I’m not gonna punish you either.”
Jay sat frozen, arms crossed so tightly across his chest he felt the strain in his shoulders. His jaw was clenched so hard it hurt. His breath came slow, measured by force of will alone.
Every part of him screamed to move.
To lash out.
To tear this man—this Amengual—apart with the rage simmering so close to the surface.
Their blood.
Their terror.
And now, here sat the son of that legacy, speaking calmly of forgiveness.
Of peace.
Jay’s hands twitched against the fabric of his sleeves. It would be so easy. Too easy. To cross the table and put his hands around the bastard’s throat. He could imagine it clearly. The jolt of impact. The satisfying crack of cartilage under pressure. The brief, wild flash of fear in Matías’s eyes before they went dark.
He wanted it.
The violence hummed in his bones like an old song, too familiar to forget.
The silence stretched on. Growing heavier with every second.
It pressed against Jay’s ribs, made his skin itch with the unbearable weight of choosing.
Finally, he stood. The chair shrieked against the tile, sharp enough to flinch them, if they were the flinching kind. He wasn’t. The bastard just sat there, calm, steady, as if he knew every storm Jay could summon and had already decided to weather it.
Jay turned away, his fists shaking. The rage had nowhere to go. It clawed under his skin, tore at the inside of his throat.
And so he drove his knuckles into the wall.
The impact was jarring. Pain blooming bright and immediate across his hand. The drywall caved inward with a hollow crack, a fine spray of dust puffing out around his bleeding knuckles.
It didn’t help.
Not really.
But it was better than what he could have done.
Better than what he wanted to do.
He stood there, breathing hard. The pain singing up his arm, grounding him. Reminding him that he still had a choice. That he hadn’t crossed that line he desperately wanted to cross.
Slowly, intently, he turned back to face Matías.
The man hadn't moved. Hadn’t even blinked. He just sat there, steady as bedrock, letting Jay rage in his orbit without flinching.
Jay hated him a little for that.
Respected him a little too.
He wiped the blood from his knuckles on his pants with a rough swipe. The sting sharp and deserved.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, scraped raw from holding back everything he wanted to say.
“I can’t forgive them,” he said. His throat felt torn with the truth of it. “It's impossible.”
Jay sucked in a breath, tasting the iron tang of his own anger still burning the back of his tongue. He flexed his battered hand once, twice.
“But I’m not gonna punish you either.”
Only darkness shows you the light.