Vendetta

strange, but he never expected things to finally turn out this way; this is supposed to be the moment he has been aching for to happen, to at last be able to gloat over the misfortune, defeat and dying of a most loathsome, feared enemy whose very existence he detests; but with his foe now bedridden, crumpled, wasted and wizened, vulnerable and uncomprehending, he has lost any craving for revenge, for the final and fatal blow, strange; yet there's a hollow satisfaction as he looks down on a sallow mask that stares blankly up from a pillow; to the sad relatives, friends around who have scrunched into the room, he mumbles weary words of sympathy, unfeeling words that hang in the air, sounding distant and, yes, insincere !