The Black Juice of Revenge

Who are your current most favorite people?

They called him “The Black Juice Practitioner.” He moved through life like dark nectar, extracting the essence of others for his gain. His methods were silent, invisible, yet potent—like a venom slowly steeping into the soul.

For five long years, his singular obsession was revenge against someone who dared cross his path. His prey—a nobody to the world, no threat to his grandeur—had unknowingly provoked his wrath. Revenge, for him, was not swift or loud. It was slow, cold, and deliberate.


The Accidents: Stirring Chaos

Even after his enemy moved away, the practitioner refused to let go. His hatred brewed stronger, more refined, and he unleashed it in the form of accidents.

The Road’s Betrayal:
One evening, the narrator’s car brakes failed on a sharp curve. Panic surged as the vehicle careened toward a ditch. Miraculously, they survived unscathed, but the incident left them questioning every step they had taken.

The Falling Tile:
Weeks later, a loose roof tile crashed onto their porch, narrowly missing their head. A coincidence? Or something more sinister?

The Sudden Swerve:
On a routine drive, another car swerved recklessly into their lane, forcing them off the road. No explanation, no apology—just another strike in the practitioner’s silent war.


Each incident seemed random but was part of a meticulously orchestrated plan to instill fear, paranoia, and helplessness. The practitioner’s dark magic wasn’t just about physical harm; it was about mental entrapment.

The Seeds of Healing

But the narrator, though shaken, was not broken. Their strength came from a growing awareness that the practitioner’s power relied on their own fear and doubt.

Prayer as a Weapon:
They turned to prayer, not as a plea for safety, but as a shield against the darkness. Each prayer was a step closer to freedom, a reminder of their own resilience.

Reclaiming the Mind:
They began to see the accidents for what they were: illusions of control. The falling tile? A test of composure. The swerving car? A challenge to remain steadfast. They refused to let these events define their reality.

Forgiveness as a Cure:
One night, in a quiet moment of reflection, they whispered aloud:
“I forgive myself for being trapped in his web. I forgive the fear, the doubt, and the pain. I forgive him, not because he deserves it, but because I deserve peace.”


With each act of forgiveness, they felt lighter. The practitioner’s grip weakened, unable to latch onto the strength of a healed spirit.

Confronting the Disturbances

Though accidents ceased, the disturbances remained: whispers in dreams, shadows on the edge of vision, and moments of inexplicable dread. These were the final remnants of his curse, lingering like the last drops of a bitter potion.

Dreams to Clarity:
The narrator kept a journal by their bed, recording every unsettling dream. Through this, they uncovered their own subconscious fears and learned to transform nightmares into affirmations of strength.

Facing the Shadows:
Instead of avoiding the shadows, they stood their ground, whispering,
“You have no power here. I see you, and I let you go.”

Breaking the Spell:
With the help of divine guidance, they performed rituals of cleansing—lighting candles, burning sage, and chanting mantras of protection. They rebuilt their home as a sanctuary, impenetrable by darkness.

The Practitioner’s Undoing

As the narrator healed, the practitioner’s darkness began to consume him. His once-meticulous schemes grew sloppy, his confidence unraveling.

The accidents he orchestrated turned inward:

A near miss on his drive to work.

A fall in his own home, leaving him limping.

A growing paranoia that his own colleagues whispered about him behind his back.


The juice he brewed for others had turned sour, poisoning his own life.


The Final Blend

The narrator reflects:
“His juice may be strong, but it is poisoned. I will not drink it again. My prayers, my faith, and my forgiveness are my antidote. I’ve learned to blend my own life—a mix of resilience, clarity, and peace. I leave him to his concoctions, for I know that what he brews will eventually consume him.”

And so, the practitioner sits alone at his grand table, sipping from his goblet of black juice, unaware that his ultimate victim will be himself.