Heya! Happy Friday. Here’s a weird little short story about rage, depression, and a possible dead body.
Hope you enjoy it.
He sits by the window and sinks his nails into the arm of the chair. I walk by and smile, placing a hand on his shoulder, feeling his vibration.
“Today, the world is a dream. And I wish to be undone.”
This talk is common for us. I know that tomorrow he will smile and the feeling of security will wash over him like a cool breeze. But that is not today, today there is a rage on the ends of his coat.
He stands abruptly and begins to pace the room. He mumbles to himself, cursing at his existence. He has too much energy, too much rage.
“They don’t tell you about the rage that comes with depression. No one talks about how useless you feel at your inability to regulate your brain.”
I watch in silence, my words won’t make a difference. I, too, feel a rage rumbling inside my breast. I want to break something, to break someone. But as he paces back and forth, wearing away at the floorboard I overlook my simple need for violence.
My hands reach for a book, or maybe it was a bat, I don’t remember much.
And I leap at him swinging, swinging as if he was a beast I must vanquish. They never tell you about the rage that hides subtly in your chest. At the anger that claws at your throat.
It’s a lie. My hands are still empty as he paces the rooms. But I could have sworn I drew blood, I could have sworn there was a body covered in my rage on the kitchen floor.
I sit in the corner and hold my hands tightly, the rage begins to build again. This time I see red.