Junk Drawer

Rage

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I squeezed my eyes shut again. The pain of him leaving was too hard, and it left my head swirling as I laid on the floor of the closet crying. The blue suitcase was gone, along with countless items of clothing, and his wedding band sat on the dresser, a constant reminder that he had left behind his marriage. It felt as if I were being flooded with memories of us, crashing onto me like a tidal wave that I wished would leave me alone. That’s the thing about memories, they’re only there if you think about them, they only hurt if you let them hurt, but I wanted to hurt. I wanted the constant reminder that he had left me, that I wasn’t good enough etched into my brain, reminding me as I was grocery shopping, picking out ingredients to a dinner he loved. The provenance of my life without him was like the beginning of a child’s life, where he’d be struck with too many hardships a young child should ever endure.

As the days drew on, I’d find myself at noon with a bottle of whiskey in my hand trying to piece together the reasons he had left me. The more I thought about it, the more tension and pressure grew in the bottle, until finally it shattered, shards of glass flying everywhere, whiskey drenching the five year old faux leather couch I was sprawled up on. It slightly dawned on me that part of it was that I was a witch, but I was too drunk to acknowledge it, glass from the bottle cutting into my palm, coppery blood mixing with the whiskey on my legs, trailing onto the off-white carpet. Soon tears were dripping down my face, and I could feel anger burning in my chest like an unwanted spirit I had caged up in there, and I refused to let it out. It always resulted in chaos, things spewed across the small house, chairs smashed at the wall. What freaked him out so much about it was the fact that I had done it with my mind, but of course I couldn’t control it, who could control such a beastly power?

Maybe if we had both found about my powers together, maybe if I hadn’t kept it from him, maybe we would still be together. I found out when I was fourteen when I made my substitute teacher put her hand in her hot coffee with my mind. She had been acting horrendous towards a shy boy in the back of the class, picking on him solely for the reason that he was shy, she deserved it. I remember my mom kneeled on the ground in front of me outside the principal's office, a hand on my knee like when I was little and I’d mess up, like when I cut off my friends silky blonde pin straight hair. She had been making fun of my brown frizzy mess of curls, and laughing that I never put cute hair clips in my hair to make it a little bit cuter. Hair clips just got lost in my hair. That had been third grade, but by the time I was fourteen my mom had to let me know what was up. She told me I was a witch, and fourteen year old me was really scared. I remember the faint feeling on my legs shaking uncontrollably, and that I had to sit on my hands to keep them from shaking so much and falling off. I was sent to an academy until I was eighteen, where I learned about my powers and how to control them, but I wasn’t too good at controlling them. I got better, but you can take the girl from the inexplicable rage but you can’t take the inexplicable rage from the girl. Shocker that they let me graduate, but I think they just wanted everyone out of their hair, all fifty seven of us. There was thirty two when I first enrolled so the overall attendance was an improvement.

I met him when I was twenty, and we were married by twenty one. He was perfect, his clean cut black hair and amazing contrast against my own hair. We liked the same bands, the same TV shows, it was like we were soul mates, but I didn’t tell him that I was a witch. The first time I lost it was a month after we were married, and my sister called me, telling me my mom was dead. Everything inside me collapsed, and I could feel the rage burning bright red in my brain. A chair from the dining room he was sat at flew at the other side of the room, and soon all the chairs had joined it, littered in a piled clump against the wall.

        He had been so freaked out, not knowing what to do with me in a panic, as countless picture frames shattered on the ground below them. He had been screaming my name but I couldn’t hear him through the rage and the tears that smeared my vision. By the time I had calmed down not one picture was still intact on the wall, and somehow I had made it to the floor, hugging my knees with the receiver still in my hands. He held me, although he was shaking and tense, and that’s when I knew he wouldn’t be able to handle me or the baggage that came with me.