I am now aware of an enormous rage within my heart. It is tremendous in magnitude, and I don’t know where it came from. A song just came on the radio, and feeling restless, I stood up and let the beat flow through me. For a moment, I stood with my eyes closed, the rhythm pulsing through me. Then I unleashed it. My fists flew in rapid succession. I kicked, I punched, I slashed and stabbed with my fingers. Then, I sighted my katana, and grinned a wicked grin. I put it away after just a few seconds, realising that with this sort of adrenaline, I was going to break something.
But the adrenaline didn’t leave when I sat back down. The song was still playing, or another one, very much like it. I can’t tell the difference, because I never listen, I just hear. Pointly, I stood up again as my heart hammered and I felt the rush of adrenaline. I took my katana from the bed where I left it. Blunt, fortunately. Otherwise I’d have killed a great many things. And still I’ve managed to draw my own blood thrice with it. It takes skill to cut yourself on blunt metal.
I slashed. I stabbed, I slashed, and slashed again. The blade shimmered as I spun it in simple but fancy manouvers. Light danced across my room as the metal glanced it off in splays. And then I slashed again, stopping a centimeter away from my bed. Again, a centimeter away from my table. Again, and again, both coming from different directions at my chair. Then I turned to face my bed, and brought down the katana with all my physical might, to hover millimeters above my pillow. I smiled. Yes, that felt good. I raised the sword again.
A large ravine in my pillow, perhaps an inch deep. Hell yes. That’s the feeling. That’s the rage. Again, I raised it, gritting my teeth and attacking my bed in white fury, with another almighty slash. The support shook and jerked under the sudden pressure. I panted, having expended my energy, and sank to my knees, resting the sword on the matress and hugging my pillow apologetically, whispering my sorrow. Then I stood, not quite done, and leapt on top of the bed, pummelling my poor, purple pillow with a force beyond tolerance. After it had recoiled noticably, I closed my fingers together and slammed it with both my fists at once, as a coup de gras. I attacked with a fury I had never known existed, nor where its origin lay.
I leapt off my bed, panting and breathing steam. I flung my labcoat off in half a second and stormed into the bathroom. "Typical", I thought. "I’m going to be like every other bent up teenager, and stare and good and hard at my reflection to see what demon lay beneath the skin."
I didn’t. I just turned on the cold water and doused my face and neck. I now regret that, because I’m resultantly glued to my tissue box.
Mum came to check if I was okay, she was off to pick up Eugene. I guess she hadn’t noticed anything, which is odd, because the bathroom is a meter and a half away from my own room. So yup yup, she walked out, I sheathed my sword and set it on the rack, and sat down to type.
People of Earth. Know that I am very possibly one of the most dangerous enemies (by himself) you will ever meet. If I ever have reason to be truly angry at something, then pray to whatever god you believe in that it is not you my wrath is directed at. Being implosive has its advantages. People don’t know how truly fucking psychotic I can get until it’s punched them in the face, five times a second.