Victory.

It was sour. She felt a little guilty. For the duration of her life she had morally refrained from doing such as this; getting what she wanted at the expense of others. As a result, she was very rarely happy. Eventually, she got sick of being unhappy.

And so she used what power she had. His happiness. Slowly, over time, she wore him down. She needled him with a jab every now and then; just enough to hurt him, just enough to make him worry, just enough to make him feel guilty. She crafted her words cleverly. She knew just what to say to hurt him the most. "I am just trying to be honest," she would write, deferring blame in pursuit of the great idol Communication. He could not become angry at her. He would become angry at himself. He would feel more guilty each time. He would break.

He did break. And that meant she had him now, and she would have him until death. Yes, she felt a little guilty. But that was nothing compared to the peace she felt as she held him in her arms, and the triumph she felt, the sheer victory of having finally gotten what she wanted, in the same way everyone else had always done to her to get what they wanted.

She held him close and inhaled the scent of his hair. Victory. It was sour, but to her, sour had always tasted sweet.

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This post is part of the Blue-Beta Blog Coordination, a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Confuzzled of I Keep Wondering, Gromit of The Dancing Newt, Third Mango of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Xanthippe of Let’s Save Our Hallmark Moment, and Yarjka of Sour Mayonnaise. This week's theme: 'Victory'.