anger boiling up - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Every time I saw Terry on the way to class he smacked me over the head with the flat of his hand. It wasn't a gesture of friendship, we weren't in some weird club, he hit hard and it stung. One day he was coming toward me with his sardonic grin, waving at me with that meaty paw. I dunno what happened, five guys had to pull me off of him and his nose was a bloody mess, smashed right into his face. Now I'm up on charges and expelled, he's lapping up sympathy on the children's ward. But I've still got my nose and he's got a bloody pulp. So there you go, seems like my inner psycho had the last word.
Every time he opened his mouth I got angrier. "That's not the right way to stack a dishwasher, you don't wash up properly, fold the clothes this way..." At first I would swallow my retort and just do it, smile and move on. But that only made it worse. Then he felt empowered to micromanage every little aspect of our lives, every damn thing done his damn way. One day I just snapped. All that rage came out faster than magma and just as destructive. It consumed all that he was, so delicate under that carefully ordered world. He shrivelled before me but I kept on going, stopping short of physical violence but doing far more damage with my words. He hadn't meant to wind me up so much, he was just a little OCD, but I had been vengeful and mean, I had been a person he didn't want to know anymore.
Winston rested his head in his hands. What a night. Either someone screaming or car horns honking. He just needed an unbroken night and he'd be a new boy. The teacher was droning on about atoms, nucleus this, electron that, then a question directed right at him. He raised his red laced eyeballs from the graffiti on the desk to look at the bespectacled man in the tweedy suit. “Tut tut, no studying, Winston?” Study? Where? In their family's single motel room there was no place quiet and he wasn't allowed out after dark anyway. His brothers and sisters screamed, threw tantrums and the television droned on, looney tunes mostly. His fingers curled tightly around his pencil, he could to see the man's neck snapping in his mind and it felt good. He could feel his fist smashing into his nose, splattering red blood on the dirty walls. What an improvement that would be. But instead he just replied as if his jaw were wired shut.
White knuckles from clenching her fist too hard, and gritted teeth from effort to remain silent, her hunched form exuded an animosity that was like acid - burning, slicing, potent. Her face was red with suppressed rage, and when Marcos even set a finger on her shoulder, she swung around and mentally snapped.
Joel had been weaving through crowds all day, holiday music telling him how joyous he was to be parting with the savings it had taken him months to accrue. Now who was getting it? Some fat CEO? He told his parents he wanted to cancel Christmas; his mom had just laughed, asking if he was having a bad day. Now here he was being jollied along to spend his cash, not on skiing, the only hobby that kept him sane, but on things the advertisers told them they wanted. And what was he going to get? Fuck knows. But whatever it was he didn't want it. Now he was ten people back in a line-up to buy his sister some overpriced make-up and an anti-wrinkle cream that would make no difference to his mother's face. Can't stop time. The line up moved on but he didn't. The gap grew. There was a loud huff from a girl behind. “Are you gonna move up?” Joel turned, dropped the goods in her basket and left. It was his money. He was giving love for Christmas and if that wasn't good enough then fuck'em.
Mrs Pollock is at the door again, wanting to know when I will chop down my nasty diseased tree. She is quite certain that it will infect her expensive plants next door. From the ferocity of her vent I know this isn't the first time she's had this conversation. Likely she's been telling her friends for a couple of weeks and finally has just the right combination of accumulated anger and tacit support to come to me. I listen without interruption until she's just glaring, hands on hips. I can almost see steam from those red cheeks. I turn to fetch a pen and paper, I want to write it down this time. In all caps I scrawl "corkscrew hazel, google it," and hand it over with a weak smile that hides my urge to hit her hard. That tree is the joy of my garden, its twigs hang in ringlets like my daughter's hair did when she was young. In winter the denuded branches are artistic and carefree, turning in their random ways. I know her garden is all straight lines, but I need nature's chaos to relax.
The woman in front of me is showering her child in praise and I know it should warm my heart but there is a part of me that just doesn't care if he gets to choose his candy or if she selects it for him. For the fourth time she goes through the display but it's just too many options for a pre-schooler, he's simply overwhelmed. The line is now snaking back as far as the aisles of cereal. I want to tell her the kid needs help to choose, or just a choice of two, but I know advice from strangers never goes down well with these yummy mummies. Even against the music of the store her voice carries, “Oh cutie-pie, would you like mummy to tell you them again?” The kid nods and runs his hands over the wrappers just to hear them crinkle. In seconds my basket is on the floor and I'm heading out the door. I had the choice of loosing my temper or my shopping; but since I shop here three times a week it's better to keep the peace and a slice of my dignity.
Every word stung only fueling the fire that burned inside of me. Every violated phrase was like gasoline to it, my fists began to clench and my jaw rooted. When the final mento had been added to the coke inside of me I exploded with anger, with no control objects levitated and broke. People dropped to the floor as the primeval instinct took over.
Pardon? You’re beginning to fade out too fast. You want to come back but you don’t know how? Well, it’s a matter of whether I invite you or not. You’re here because I wanted to help you, but if you’re going to be disrespectful about it then you can go. I don’t care anymore. Hang on a minute, God’s talking, I should what? Not be so pouty? OK. But I went to hell and back to bring this message and they think I’m a crack pot. Yes, I knew they would, but it still stings when it’s shoved in my face. You want me to give them another chance? Well, you’re the boss. Can we just leave it for today now? They can walk with me tomorrow, I’m feeling really pissed off. Mmm, hmmm, yep. Got it. You going now? See ya. He’s gone. He extends His grace, He says He Loves you and all is forgiven. I say I need space and we’ll start afresh tomorrow, like this little spat never happened...
Earnest lies in the bleach tinctured ward on the crisp but thinning sheets. A curtain hangs limply on the chrome railing, looking like it's been washed a thousand times. With eyes on the polystyrene tiles above he hears the door open and in comes Tara with a priest. He feels his chest tighten into a knot like a cramp and a quiet rage builds inside.
"Love, I know you said no priest, but darling, this is when everyone needs one." Tara rests her hand on his, feeling the coldness in his fingers. He pulls his hand away and turns toward the wall. The priest looks to Tara and smiles apologetically.
"Nobody has to see the priest, if he'd rather not talk to God that's OK." At his words Earnest turns over faster than he has done this past month that has seen him wane into a shadow of the powerful man he was.
"God? Don't want to talk to God? Actually, that's a fine idea. I want to meet him right now. I want to know why a man who's worked every God damn day to provide for his family, to be a good man, has to die like an animal. Worse than that, they get put down right? All I want is enough morphine to drop a cow and you can send me to Jesus with a smile on my face." Tara blanched.
"I'm so sorry, sorry. That's not like him at all. He goes to church every Sunday, he loves God."
"No Tara, no I don't. He can make a planet in six days but he can't put a loaf of bread in a starving child's hands? He can make mountains but he can't make a clear book of instructions everyone can follow? Damn it, Tara, even Lego does a better job than that. You want me to worship a God that leaves children to suffer? You just want a God that saves you your favourite parking spot and reminds you to put the trash out on Wednesdays. So yeah, I want to talk to him, I want to give a piece of my mind." Tara opened her mouth, but her tears were falling too thickly. The priest stepped forwards.
"Son, God is a spirit, he can only work through our spirits. He's in everyone, if they want his guidance..."
Burning rage hissed through my body like deathly poison, screeching a demanded release in the form of unwanted violence. It was like a volcano erupting; fury sweeping off me like ferocious waves. The wrath consumed like, engulfing my moralities and destroying the boundaries of loyalty.
My eyes narrowed as the man continued taunting me. He was tall and handsome, but a pretty face wasn't going to get him out of this.
"What did you say?" I asked, tightening my ponytail. The man looked unimpressed.
A cruel sneer formed on his smooth face and he leaned forward, eyes bearing straight into mine. "I said, there is no way a little girl like you took down Matthew."
My hands twitched and I could feel a vein pulsing in my forehead. "You wanna bet?"
"Sorry kid, but I don't fight children. Especially-"
"But you'll kill them!" I exclaimed, my anger and hatred getting the better of me. I closed in the distance between the man and myself. My voice lowered, almost to a whisper. "Do you remember Jamie?"
The man's eyes widened for a second before narrowing in anger.