One afternoon, I ventured out to My favorite papaya tree to pick some fleshy gems. On the climb down, I clumsily slipped and sprained My ankle on the landing. As I writhed, squirmed, and agonized about pitifully, I heard a taunting chuckle emanate from the mango tree beside Me.
"You stupid boy," she muttered.
Apparently, the Batibat that resided among it had awakened during the cacophony. It actually surprised Me, since she always ignored My existence–nevertheless, My anger seethed.
The following evening, I returned, not with an axe, but with a wooden board and some rope.
Many had tried to cut into her impenetrable exterior, but their efforts were in vain–I had other plans though.
She looked at Me with apathy, as she always had, while I got to work. Half an hour later I was swinging joyfully from her branches. You see, rather than inflict My vengeance in a direct, yet predictable blow, mine was more insidious, like a formless vapor that filled a confined space.
My retribution wouldn't be seen, only felt. I would use her for My own personal pleasure from now on, and there was nothing she could do about it.