Short Story Collection

Anger

Anger. It's the red behind her eyes. The pulse in her hands. The gnawing wish to circle her fingers on his throat. It would be so easy. He looks so peaceful. So innocent. Or maybe it's better with a pillow? No. Hands. The rhythm in the ears, the pounding, overwhelming. Perhaps it will go away. Just close your eyes and it will go away. But it's worse, oh, it's nagging. The heat in the bones, the scorching in the gut, the need to close them, close them, close them. Whatever happens after is not important. There is only this moment, and him, and this cutting knife of anger that slices lazily across her stomach. Perhaps it's drawing something, perhaps it's mocking her. It dares her to try, to cinch, to end his life. The words he said, the words. They were only words. Maybe it's too high a price to pay? He should've thought better. There was a string inside her, a musical string, and he broke it with his clumsy fingers. Now she's mute. Now she can no longer sing, the instrument that was so keen on seeking sounds.

Anger. He doesn't sleep. He pretends. The knife is under the pillow. Now? Or let her hair fall closer. Why should he wait? Why should he forgive? The calm, the cold, like under the water. Still. Mind sits in his darkness like a missile, poised to deliver the demise, the demise she brought upon herself. It was't him, oh no. She did it. She must die. If only she would make another step, and lean, and open up her chest to his closed eyes. He can smell her, that offensive pungent whiff of some cheap perfume. Of course she'd pick something like that to mask her sour stink of anger. Yes, she is angry, he can feel it. It marches all over his skin like hot pincers taken out of a livid fire. But he will wait. The waiting is part of the pleasure. The keeping, the holding of the gushing blood under the cover of cool, under the pretense of sleep. What could be more delicious?

Anger. They're poised to kill each other. They don't know that we're here. The fire, the fury, it consumes us. Shall we let them? Shall we watch? Shall we come out when one of them is dead? Or shall we surprise them, my little helper? Quiet. Quiet. It does not become us to rush into this, it will ruin the sweet taste. We're hidden very well here, in the shadows. We shall wait. Per chance the girl will go first, per chance the boy. Per chance we won't have to do naught except to wash our hands. What do you think, my little helper? Show me your teeth. That's good, very good. Keep your voice down. We'll only have to wait a couple minutes longer...