You’re the last one standing.  You get the tears and the cheers, the hugs and the accolades.  You get to say how it all went down. The blood washes off.  The bones knit.  The muscles heal.  Tickertape parades follow.  

Not this time. Swear to God. This time, every glorious, evil, caustic, cantankerous curse I’d ever longed to utter would spill from my lips in a venomous and malignant and withering froth. Every repressed urge. Every petty resentment.