Who’s to say what's right or wrong?  It’s all just random people using what they know about the world to deem themselves worthy of deciding the moral mindset of the human race as an entirety;  and even deeper than that, it's just those people responding to the chemical reactions in their annoyingly large brains. But really, disregarding those people, is there a right or wrong?  Are people born with that programmed into them? Do basil plants or pumas know right and wrong? Or is it just us humans with our complex brains. Ironically, it seems like the bigger they get, the dumber we become, the more arguments and division we have and the more complicated we make things.  I have been pondering these questions ever since the prospect and completion of “revenge” came into my life.

 ~

The engine of my rusty orange F-150 howled as I flew down the dark empty highway.  Gasoline cans, rags and basil plants filled the truck bed. With all the windows down, my coarse, grey hair was in a ferocious battle with the hair tie I had hastily put in.  The Creedence Clearwater CD blared from my old Ford speakers, getting me ready for the task at hand. My mind kept trying to justify what I was about to do. I knew there was no moral justification of revenge.  “Two wrongs don't make a right” or whatever. But I also knew it would make me feel a lot better about the whole situation. And although I wouldn't necessarily say arson is my specialty, it's really not that hard to set a fire.  

“Fortunate Son” brought my head back into focus just as the turn appeared.  The road was dusty and uneven, with huge, looming pine trees lining the sides.  I dimmed my headlights and turned off the music as I got closer. Soon, the big ominous barn took shape from behind my windshield.  After slowly coming to a stop so as to not let my old brakes give me away, I gingerly stepped out of the car and lifted the gasoline, rags and some old beer bottles out of the back and carried them a ways away from my truck to a rather dry spot in the woods.  When I had finished stuffing the bottles, I walked over to the barn and lit the cloth.

I stood there and watched as the once dark, blanketed forest and barn rather suddenly become engulfed in a blinding orange eruption, followed by a lot of surprisingly loud cracks and booms.  My knees buckled. I could feel the heat pounding on my back as I ran back to the truck.  

The drive home was brutal.  I was filled with both very prominent remorse and extreme satisfaction.  Intense confusion and crystal clear clarity. My head was a mess. I had tears running down my cheeks and landing in between my lips.  My arms were shaking so much that the car kept swerving out of my lane. The last thing I remember was running through my front door and crumpling on the couch. 

The next morning I tried to treat like any other morning; woke up, ate a peach and watered my basil.  The only thing that was different was that I really had no idea how to feel. Was I supposed to regret doing it, which I didn't, or be happy that I did it, which I didn't either.  I didn't know what to do with myself. I walked out onto my back porch and studied my basil. It seemed to study me back, only the more I stared at it the more judgmental in became, almost like it knew what I had done and was shaming me for it.  I kicked the plant, killing it, and hurried back in my house.  

It occurred to me a day or two before the knock at my door that put an end to both my confusion, and my life, that I had left the empty gas cans there.  I was sitting on my back porch again, looking at the withered, sun dried basil plant I had kicked, wondering if it knew I was still a good person. It was then that I really started to lose my mind.