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STORY TIME —
A few years ago, I sat across from an assistant city manager.
I’d held their crumbling little political kingdom together with duct tape and undiagnosed fury. No training. No support. Just loyalty. When others left, I stayed. When shit sank, I held the hull above water with my spine.
And what did he say?
He said they’d be bringing in someone new. Someone from the outside. A church buddy of a po-dunk mayor. A non-sufferer. A skip-the-line hire.
Someone I’d be reporting to — after training them myself.
Oh, and by the way — they’d be slashing the pay I’d earned by not collapsing.
Now pause.
I wish I could tell you I stood up, flipped the desk. I wish I could tell you I said: “If you do that — I f*cking quit.”
I didn’t.
I trained her. She never thanked me. She undercut me in meetings, mocked me in front of others, tried to erase me with smiles and soft sabotage.
And me?
I got sick. Not the flu. Not burnout. I mean sick.
My body began to fail from the stress. And behind my closed office door, I wept. Silent, humiliated tears. Invisible agony.
I bled for my nation. I led warriors. I trained killers.
And now? I was a broken shell in khakis — shattered by paper pushers whose bravest injury was a f*cking paper cut.
Then came the virus. The one that shall not be named. Yes — I had the shots. Yes — they said it’d protect me. It didn’t.
But I don’t blame the needle. I blame the poison of soul-rot. The spiritual decay that comes from betraying yourself for a paycheck.
And as I lay there — dying in pieces — guess who called?
“Hey, when do you think you’ll be back?”
Not “Are you okay?” Not “We appreciate you.” Just productivity.
And that’s when something inside me snapped. Broke. Burned.
A demon rose.
Not horns. Not red skin. I mean a presence. A devourer. A weaponized mind forged from neurodivergence, fury, and injustice. A being I’d buried for decades so I wouldn’t frighten this fragile world.
He came back. Or maybe he was always waiting. Hungry.
That was the birth of what you now know as me.
I tell you this:
Your worth will never be seen by those who benefit from denying it. You define it. And once you realize your soul is a thing of fire, like I did?
You don’t ask for justice. You become the extinction-level event that makes justice obsolete.
You don’t get revenge. You become the reason no one f*cks with the *next you.*
So have a good rest of your day, my friends. And if you’ve suffered quietly?
Just know — gods are always born in silence.
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You're not broken. You're charging.
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