A grudge can be a slippery, unreliable weapon. Especially when you forged it during your teenage years. It doesn’t sit right in your hand as an adult, no matter how you hold it. Yet something deep inside you—something that feels owed—it keeps urging you to brandish it. The weapon convinces you that your whole being has been somehow defined by it, and without it, you wouldn’t know who you are. But every time you stab your enemy, you feel less satisfied. Every time you stab, you’re the only one left bleeding.
