It isn't often that she gets angry, but when she does, run.
She paces in her bedroom now, too incensed for words. Her thoughts are a jumble of fiery rage, incoherent mutterings of revenge and despair and pure fury.
She can't believe he did this, that he was stupid(more) enough to cheat on her practically in front of her face. He wasn't even drunk. And the girl wasn't even that pretty. And she was in the next room.
The first thing that makes her angry is that he cheated on her. The second thing that boils her blood is that he was arrogant enough to try to kiss her, despite the fact that there was a half-naked girl behind him. The third thing is his stupidity. She's honestly never met a more stupid individual in her entire life.
She's never felt anger like this before, and it's simmering inside of her, the tectonic plates of her sanity crashing together and melting rock and magma and reality, the fire inside her pushing at her skin, wanting out. She's a volcano, a bomb, a dangerous chemical reaction. Her rage blinds her as she reaches for the gun that is in her bedside table, for emergencies.
The anger bursts out. It overflows and she clenches the gun in her right hand, pressing it against her temple and pulling the trigger.
Because if she's honest with herself, it's not him that she's mad at. It's herself. She's mad that she wasn't good enough for him. She's mad that she kissed him back. She's mad at her stupidity, how stupid she was to believe him, to love him.
And in the split second between pulling the trigger and death, she's angry that her rage got the best of her.(less)
Rage is a beigish color. It's not red, as most people think, because rage does not always come screaming at you, it sometimes it typhoons in your heart and never come out. It isn't blue either, because betrayal blue is always overwhelmed by ravaging rage. It's not exactly yellow (more)either, yellow is too happy and innocent for rage. It might be green, because green is mature enough to withstand the pressure put on by rage. But it's not exactly green either-rage is a bit too shallow for adulthood. It is close to brown, because rage is raw and wreckful. But again, brown is too powerless to be rage. So we take the middle of brown and green, green and brown, and say it is beigish.(less)
It's not red hot, like people assume it is. That's just an over-used color metaphor to mean that it is passionate. But it's not. They're wrong. This generalizations are too exact to match everyone. Rage is a vague term, a word that means something different for everyone.
I(more)f my rage had to be a color, it would be yellow. For the yellow stripe that was painted down my back and left there until it stained. Rage takes a while to boil up. It starts out as fear. Fear of making mistakes, fear of not doing everything that needs to be done, fear of being trapped in situations where there is no right answer. There are a lot of things I worry about, and sometimes worry feels like fear. But that fear makes me weak. Things fall through the cracks and disappear and between the sadness, the fear, the frustration I end up in tears. Or nearly so.
It's like science. Add water to heat and you get boiling water, steam, anger. Tears, or the threat of tears, are the last straw. After that, all that's left is anger at myself and at situations or at others. It's feeling trapped and vulnerable with no way out and nothing to do but punch the walls in an attempt to escape. It is fear, distilled over time. And with all of this fear hanging around my head, you might as well call me Rage Sage.
One of Anora Fitzroy's earliest memories was standing in front of her new foster mother being lectured on loyalty.
"No one expects loyalty from a bastard." She'd looked at the six year old in front of her. "Because of who you are, my dear, you must not only BE(more) more loyal than anyone else, you must be seen to be so."
"Yes my Lady," Anora replied. "I understand the distinction quite well."
Quinn nodded, "I'm certain that you do. Always remember this Anora, your brother loves you, but you are subject to the king."
Anora looked puzzled, "but, they are the same person, aren't they?"
"No, never make that mistake. The king is his Majesty. Your brother is Sebastian, they are two VERY different people rolled into one body."
"I believe I understand my Lady, I will do my best to do as you say." Anora curtsied to her guardian.
Dropping to her knees, Quinn wrapped the little girl in a hug. "You will do well, you and your brother. I have every faith that you will be King Sebastian's most loyal and steadfast subjects. Now, I think you have lessons do you not?."
Anora clung to Quinn for just a minute, she was warm and smelled a bit like cinnamon. "Yes my Lady, maths and then dancing later. Thank you for explaining things to me." The child curtsied once more and scampered off.
Quinn watched her go, her undyed wool skirts swishing around her ankles. Smiling, she went to write a letter to her sovereign, his siblings were coming along.
I hovered behind them like an angry hornet, pulling up close, about to hit his bumper. Who did this fool think he was driving under the speed limit? He doesn't deserve a licence. I hooted again, two loud short bursts, to no avail. There was no passing lane on(more) this stretch of road and I couldn't cross lanes thanks to the road barriers kindly placed by our lovely government and my tax dollars. I pulled down my window and shot out a finger and waved it at the bloody little Honda. I combined it with the horn for an aggressive combo. My wife sat next to me in her passenger seat holding onto the railing with her eyes closed. Women could be such worry warts. How could we crash? We weren't even going 100! Finally the road barrier disappeared and I was left with a whole new side of the road to drive on. Apart from the odd car it was practically empty. I took my chance and went for it, foot on the accelerator, blood pumping through my veins. My wife yelled my name, "Jason!". But all I could see in that moment was to pass that little grey-haired man in his Honda. I was halfway between the two lanes, side by side with him. He looked out his driver's window at me with fearful eyes. That's when the road barrier popped back up. In less than a second, a dreadful shredding of metal tore its way though us. Glass exploded around us. My air bag deployed in the nick of time. My head still pounded from the impact. The seat belt had cut into my flesh. I looked at the damage to the front of my car. It was beyond repair. Then I saw my dead wife.(less)
I do not believe in god because I do not understand what a god is. Is it an entity that is all powerful? Then why does he need me? He will do what he wants whenever he wants. If he is omnipotent, is he just? Then why does he kill the most innocent, the(more) most faithful with seeming indifference? Does god have a form? Then where is he? If he is formless, then that means he is nowhere. If he is nowhere then that means he doesn't exist. Does he love me? Then why is he silent, why does he withhold himself from me and the world? That is not love, but neglect. The god notion is a primitive one and does not survive repeated questioning. That is why religion discourages this analysis, calling it infidelism or unbelief. The most pious countries are all the most poor and ignorant. People claim faith in God only in the hopes of gaining something: wealth, favor, luck, eternal life. No one really loves God. They fear him and seek his confidence, his help, his protection. It is a business transaction, I worship you, you help me, though no one dare call it such. But look at all the money that changes hands in the church. I do not believe in god, nor do I believe we have all the answers yet, not by a long shot. Amen(less)
Dr. Hartwell sat across from his patient. He flipped through the file in front of him but it was sparse and spoke in loose, ambiguous phrases. And parts of it had been redacted? What was this guy, CIA?
The patient, Chris, let out a tired sigh. Sounded like he'd heard the question before.
"You don't want to do this."
Typical. People with anger issues always considered themselves dangerous. But you don't start doing therapy for the military without bulking up a bit first. And Hartwell was six foot two. Chris was barely, what? Five and a half? It's always the small ones that have complexes.
"I assure you, I do. I used to suffer from anger issues myself. I think that learning to control rage is -"
"No, look, I've had other four therapists already. They're all gone."
"I don't quit so easy."
"You're misunderstanding me. They're DEAD. I'm a danger to you and this whole complex." Chris glanced nervously towards the nurses standing outside the door.
Hartwell flipped through the file. There was no mention of any past therapy. Paranoid schizophrenia, maybe? It wasn't unheard of.
"I volunteered for an experiment. I hoped it'd be some Captain America shit. Because I'm tiny, you know? But now, whenever I get angry, things light on fire. Things EXPLODE. I can't control it."
And there we are. Delusions of grandeur, check, check and check.
"Stop making fucking notes on your paper! You're in danger! I'm trying to HELP YOU!"
Hartwell straightened his back, towering over Chris even sitting down.
"I think I can handle anything you dish out."
Hartwell regretted the condescending smirk on his face. It was completely unprofessional. He went to apologize, but then there was the smell of smoke, and Hartwell exploded.(less)