I want him shot down in the street, I want his guts spilling into the gutter.

I want him stripped naked, shivering and in shock from the unexpected violence of it all.

I want him chained and whipped; I want the bright blood spilling from that sweet, warm, sun-gilt skin.

I want him sweating in disoriented fever on the floor three impossible meters from the phone that would bring help.

I want him out of his mind with delirium, and suffering impossible nightmares from which no-one can save him.

I want him dying in agony and alone with his friends searching fruitlessly just next door.

I want his pain.

I don't want him dead; that would be counterproductive. A pointless exercise.

I just want him dying.

And I want him dying of illness and of shooting, and of mauling and of beating, of exposure and of torture.

I want him raped, with his friends sobbing in anguish beside him, unable to save him.

It is nothing new, what I want from him.

I am hungry for his hurting, I desire his desolation, I thirst for his torment, I am satisfied in his injury and soothed in his blood.

And after the damage is done:

I want him soothed. I want him comforted, rocked gently in his friend's arms as lovingly as they would a baby.

I want him healed, whole again but bearing the scars of his suffering for all to see.

Then I want him to take his terrible revenge on those who did him wrong, on those that hurt and tormented him.

Then I am satisfied.