Hot

Hot, rushing anger. It flows through your veins and pulses through your hands. Those two appendages that once gave life will now take it back. They will now destroy. The anger twists around your heart with its tentacles of black and squeezes until there is nothing left. You can only feel the lump rising in your throat as the hot tears stream slowly down your face. Your nose begins to clog and you can hardly draw in air. Because that anger is squeezing the air from your lungs like a balloon, slowly drifting into the sky. Your mind begins to wander off into all the other times you've been so hot, and angry with passion. You lift a pencil, a pen, no a knife, and think of all the sick and twisted things you could do with such a common instrument if used in times of anger. Then you look down at the zipper in the crotch of your pants and think about all the times that's been let down to release your anger on the person whose made you angry.


Taken from the Short Story of Lucy Burnett.