hysterical crying - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Gordon always said Rose loved like a hurricane. He was right. When he passed she cried with more violence than any gale. Not to have him right there was a torture to her soul. She didn't break quietly, it was like every atom of her being screamed in unison, traumatized that she should exist without him. When the wracking sobs passed she cried in such a desolate way that no-one could bare to listen for long. She had gone from gregarious to hanging by a thread, a transformation no-one knew how to reverse.
From the waiting area came the most hysterical crying, the screaming sobs only interrupted by the person's need to draw breath. It was a primal sound, one we're programmed not to ignore. The commuters turned their heads, caught between an impulse to help and another to stay out of bother. But whatever they chose their day had been altered. To be so close to such pain changes a person, even just temporarily. Their own pains come a little closer to the surface; their empathy is triggered. If they choose to walk away they get a little kick of guilt as a punishment, a sharp jab to guide them to do the right thing next time around.
Jim cried as if his brain was being shredded from the inside. Emotional pain flowed out of his every pore. From his mouth came a cry from so raw that even the eyes of the strangers around us were suddenly wet with tears. He grabbed onto a chair so that his violent shaking would not cause him to fall and from his eyes came a thicker flow of tears than he had cried for even his own mother the previous year. We expect to bury our parents one day, but never our children. The nurse was talking to him for all the good it did. The whole world had vanished for him, now there was only pain enough to break him, pain enough to change him beyond recognition.
Mom cried as if the ferocity of it might bring Ken back; as if by the sheer force of her grief the news would be undone. He was her son, her only son and he could not be gone. Even from the top of the street curtains were twitching as neighbours craned to locate the source of the screaming sobs. Dad tried to hold her back, to calm her, even as his own tears fell thick and fast but in her hysteria she was too strong, too wild. After whirling about, unable to look through her puffy eyes at the photographs on the wall, she tumbled out of the door onto the rain-kissed street. I watched her go, dissolved in the kind of despair that can take one's mind prisoner and never give it back. Once in the open she sank down to her knees in the middle of the street, bathed in the headlamps of the cars now static before her. Ordinarily folks around here honk their horns in three seconds flat, but her wailing carried in that damp air, freezing them in place, helpless, just like me...
The world turned into a blur, and so did all the sounds. The taste. The smell. Everything was just gone. I paused trying to hold back the strange feelings rumbling inside me but I couldn’t. A lone tear traced down my cheek, and just like that, the floodgates opened. So many tears burst forth like water from a dam, spilling down my face. My chin trembled as if I was a small child. I breathed heavier than I ever had before. I was gasping for air that simply wasn’t there. My throat burned forming a silent scream. Is this what crying felt like? A part of me dying inside yet, relief…
He's loosing his mind…again. He can feel it unraveling, the threads of every happy memory he could ever once recall, all but a disarray of strings scattered about his feet. His sharp knees dig into the earth as he hits the ground, his hands unsteady as they silently claw at the dirt. He opens his mouth, but not a sound comes out, his head violently quivering as if there is a drill to the back of his skull. His eyes see nothing; they have lost all sight of what is and what could have been. His mouth is open, an eternal silenced scream, saliva dripping from behind his teeth and onto the ground, stained with the memory of those he ever loved.
It was as if every sound that escaped their mouth was set to the frequency that would shatter his heart to pieces again and again and again. He tried to ignore their cries of pain as he lay on the dust-ridden road, unmoving. Unblinking. Unthinking. It was all he could focus on for now; the cries he heard. He didn't even know them, and yet he felt like it'd been years that he'd been listening to their cries.
"Just wait for death," he thought as he felt the throb in his wound slowly fade away replaced by an emptiness that was just so much more painful. He'd embrace it when it came.
I watch Diesel Stork through the slightly parted curtain covering the glass, as my eyes slowly but surely become glassy. The middle-aged man is on his knees in bed, facing the back wall, screaming and crying. Tear stream down his cheeks, his whole face is red, and he screams at the very top of his lungs. His upper body and shoulders wrack with every sob that forces their way out, chest rising and falling unevenly as he gasps for breath, and he squeezes his eyes shut, balling his hands into fists each time he throws his head back to let out a blood curdling scream.
Sabine cried like there was too much raw pain inside her to be contained. She cried like her spirit needed to break loose from her skin, desperate to release an elemental rage on the world. The soothing words of her sister made no difference at all. Sabine was beyond all reason, beyond all natural methods of calming.