Alleyways

Alleyways; they terrify me. 

Ever since I was a little girl, and every time I step foot into an alleyway, fear would overcome my body and mind. I’d shiver and shake. I’d walk quickly with my head down and my arms crossed tightly around my chest. I try not to look at the mysterious shadows dancing across the brick buildings or across the worn-down cement. I block out the sounds that I’d heard all around me and focus on my feet beneath me. 

People say that there’s nothing to be afraid of in alleyways. They look at me, shaking their heads, as they stare at my frightened expression as I tell them that alleyways are cursed. I don’t know why I have this feeling of nausea and cowardliness every time I think of alleyways, especially in the dark. It’s just there, a feeling that haunts me. A foolish feeling. 

In stories, you’d hear about how someone would get stabbed in an alleyway, how they’d come upon an intimidating person who crawls out of the shadows and brutally kills them. Then, leaves them bleeding out in the barren, cold alleyway. 

My older brother once teased me as we walked through an alleyway. He said that during the night, ghosts would come out and follow you. He said that if you look closely, as you walk through a dark alleyway and pass by old houses, you will be able to see a face staring back at you through a dusty, dark window. 

Now whenever I walk past houses in the dark, especially in old towns, I find myself hauntingly and frighteningly staring into windows. 

Alleyways follow me into my sleep. There was a dream the other night that was one of the most horrific nightmares that I have ever had. 

It was dark, and I was walking through an abandoned alleyway. In the distance, I heard Christmas music. Though not the cheerful and joyous songs you’d hear at Christmas carols or during fun, festive times.

This was frosty the snowman, a classic song, but darker and slower. It was chilling. I vividly remember feeling the shivers run through my body in this dream. 

I remember stopping and looking around. The music drifted through the air and dragged on. I remember seeing mist and shadows. 

Suddenly, I heard a train. Not a train on tracks though, it was one of those trolleys that you’d see driving around a city. 

It came around the corner and I realized that was the source of the music. It was playing loudly and drifted towards me. The song terrified me. I was frozen on the spot as I stared at the almost empty trolley slowly coming towards me. 

There was no driver, but there were passengers. I had seen a couple women, some men and a child. They stared at me with blank, vacant faces. They had no expression and their eyes seemed dead. They wouldn’t look away either. 

Then, everything became blurry. The song became terrifyingly faster, yet it was still playing slowly. 

I stood there, a silent scream escaping my lips, as I witnessed blood dripping down the passengers faces. Their bodies shook. Then suddenly, they all spoke at once.

“Beware! Beware! Beware!”

Their voices were loud and robotic. The words mingled together until it was merely screams.

I was petrified. 

The music was still playing, but it was all around me. I heard it everywhere and I couldn’t escape the dark tune. 

I remember feeling so scared in the dream, I felt as if it was happening. 

Then, the most dreaded and horrifying thing happened. A man came out of the shadows, but he had no face. He was unknown and vague. His figure, was a blur. 

Cold, rough hands grabbed me. My legs would not move. They were jelly, and felt as if they had been glued to the ground. 

I felt the edge of a sharp knife pierce my skin, then I saw the blood red liquid seep to the ground and create a pool around me. Everything became red, then dark. 

I felt myself grow dizzy, my eyes started to close and all I could hear around me was demonic, vile laughter and the same chilling tune playing. I remember falling to the cold, cement ground and laying in my own blood. 

I barely knew what was happening. I heard myself screaming but then again, was I screaming? Or was it the passengers on the trolley? Or was it something else? Everything was disoriented, and I finally woke up when I could feel my heart stop beating in the dream.

My hands were shaking, I noticed. I felt hot and beads of sweat was dripping down my face. I had touched my tear-stained cheeks and felt my warm flesh beneath my fingertips. I was still alive, and I was in my room, on my bed. That was obvious.

But that realization that I was awake and that it was just a dream, didn’t stop the paranoia and fear seeping into my brain. 

The picture was still fresh and vivid in my mind. The pain I felt, and the bone-chilling fear, was still festering inside of me.

I finally realized my whole body was shaking, then I became aware that I was sobbing. I was sobbing so hard that my shoulders were shaking, and my chest felt tight and hollow. My body was cold, despite the warm temperature inside my room. Goosebumps had started to cover my skin. 

My eyes darted around the room, chasing the shadows and analyzing every object that I could make out in the dark.

My gaze shifted towards the window. It was still dark, and the curtains were open.

I did not bother getting up and closing it though. My legs were frozen, and I felt as if I was in the dream again, not being able to move.

The raw fear that I felt was something that would stick with me for a long time. The feeling that the nightmare etched into me, was something that would haunt me. 

I didn’t fall back asleep. I was afraid of sleep, I was afraid of the vividness of dreaming. The nauseating fear, it had latched onto me and refused to let go. 

When night fell into day, I was still afraid even though I could no longer see the shadows everywhere I looked. 

Although, what really spooked me, was the news I had received in the early afternoon. I got a phone call from a woman. A detective. She informed me that my daughter, had been murdered. Brutally. She was discovered in the early morning by a man taking a detour to work.

The woman said that her body was clumsily dumped. She was found, laying in her own blood. They said her flesh had been cut so many times they could barely see the skin. There was red all over her body. 

The only way that they had identified her and had been able to get into contact with me, was because of her license in her wallet.

That knowledge, it struck me, painfully. A dark and wretched wound was opened, one that would be almost impossible to repair. 

My daughter’s murder had happened the same night that the dream had occurred; in a dark, empty alleyway. 

Consuming Hate Part One; Chapter One. edited version

1995

Amelia hid in her room as the tone of deafening, angry voices filled her ears once again. She was tired of it. She didn’t know why they fought so intensely. The problems of her parents were kept a secret and hidden from her child-like mind. 

Lillian, her sister, would never hint at anything either. Lillian would often comfort and soothe Amelia’s uneasiness and worry when their parents fought.

But she wasn’t here right now. Lillian was at a birthday party. Amelia had no one to share her confusion with. She was alone with her discouraging thoughts. 

She lay in her bed and felt tears prick her eyes, then slowly slip down her soft child-like skin. Her mother was supposed to take her to the park today. Her plain brown hair was tied in pigtails and she was already dressed in appropriate clothes and had her new sneakers on. But her mother seemed busy. Amelia didn’t want to disturb them. The last time she had gotten in the middle of their fight; her father had yelled at her. 

His violent voice had frightened her. She didn’t like it when her father was in aggressive moods. His voice would boom and his face would turn a dark apple red color. 

When she tried to hug him, he had pushed her away roughly. Her father had never gotten physical with her like that before. Mother had scolded him, then proceeded to gently shoo Amelia away. She had told her to go wait and play outside. 

Amelia didn’t want to leave her with father. But she also didn’t wish to make her unhappy. So, she obeyed and had gone outside to sit in isolation and uncertainty. 

Sighing, Amelia slowly got off her bed without tidying her wrinkled, pink covers. Hesitantly, she took a few steps towards the door, paused, then took a few more. 

Cracking open the door, she glanced into the lightly lit hallway. The angry voices became louder as the door wasn’t blocking it from fully reaching her ears anymore. She winced at the tone and trembled. Listening to them yelling was like experiencing an earthquake. 

Slowly, Amelia dragged her feet towards where the voices were coming from. She came upon her parent’s room. The door was slightly cracked. It was enough for her to peek inside without being seen. 

Amelia observed the scene with wide eyes. Her mother’s back was facing her, but she could see her father’s face. It was full of disdain as he stared at Amelia’s mother. He said something hurtful, Amelia saw her freeze. 

Her mother slapped his chest and yelled at him. Amelia wanted to turn away, but her legs wouldn’t move. She didn’t realize that she was shaking either. 

It all happened too quickly. Her father lifted his hand in a rapid manner and slapped Amelia’s mother, causing her to fall to the ground helplessly from the strength of the blow. Everything then became too quiet. Amelia discreetly choked back a sob.

That was the first time she had witnessed heart-stopping fear. It was in that moment Amelia was afraid that her father was going to kill her mother. Then finish Amelia off. 

He heard Amelia’s cry and looked towards the doorway, but she was gone before he could see her. Or, hurt her. 

Amelia ran towards the front door, not thinking clearly. She needed to escape, Amelia felt as if she could barely breathe. Fear crawled inside her brain and made a den, clawing and whispering at her like a frantic, vile demon. 

He could kill her. She thought quickly and repeatedly. 

No he wouldn’t do that. She tried so hard to reason with the demon saying these awful things but her thoughts were going in circles and driving her mad like a record on repeat. One thought barged in, another would come after that. Any thoughts of reason got lost in the blur of her paranoia. 

Amelia pushed open the front door and hastily ran outside without shutting it. 

She almost clumsily tripped over her own feet, but quickly caught herself. She ran down the neighborhood street until she reached the woods. She didn’t stop there. Amelia ran until she felt as if she would collapse and her tiny heart would explode out of her chest. 

Suddenly coming to a stop, the shaken child felt her strength weaken. Falling onto her bottom, she placed her hands on the dark soil beneath her to steady herself. 

Looking around, Amelia noticed that she was in the middle of an unfamiliar part of the forest. 

She didn’t mind though. Out here in the strange woods she could be free to release her pain. She felt a sense of peace as if the trees were her friends. The leaves and branches would bend down and engulf her with warmth and empathy as if to say it’ll be alright, we’ll keep you safe. They shielded her from the world and the whispering of the harsh wind blowing through the air stinging her bare arms and sounding like a blur of screeching ghosts. 

Releasing out a broken-sounding sob, Amelia wept until her throat was sore and her eyes were bloodshot and tired. Rapid tears were falling fast sliding down like slime sticking to her skin. 

The memory of her father hitting her mother with such an intensity was still fresh in her mind. Since she was young, it was hard for Amelia to comprehend why he did it. She didn’t understand. But, all she knew was that it was scary. It was haunting her. 

If her daddy loved them, why would he be so cruel? The question wheeled itself through her head and made the child doubt many things in her life. But then another question popped into her fragile mind. Maybe this is what love is?

The worn-out girl let her head drop downwards. Her hands curled around her knees until she was huddling against the inviting tree, now silently sobbing. Her fragile body shivering and shaking. Her breathing came out rough and rapid. She wished she could just crawl inside the hole in the tree and stay there forever in the quiet, safe darkness. 

Amelia halted her cries when suddenly she heard the crunch of a leaf, then the sound of soft and calm breathing. She hesitantly looked up and squinted, peering up at the shape a few feet in front of her. 

The form walked forwards until it was beside her, then suddenly shifted downwards until it was sitting next to her, leaving some space between them. 

She turned her face away and hid her sorrowful expression. She didn’t wish for the stranger to see her pain. She felt humiliated and broken. The person didn’t go away though. In fact, they spoke. 

“Are you alright?” The voice asked hesitantly. 

She realized from the slight tone difference that the person was a young boy. She cautiously turned her head towards his direction and suspiciously gazed at him. 

Amelia noticed a light bruise forming on his cheek, yet thought nothing of it. He reached out to lightly touch her thin arm, but she flinched at the sensation of his skin pressing onto her own. The touch merely reminded Amelia of daddy hitting mommy. 

At her unexpected reaction, he quickly pulled his hand away and coughed awkwardly. 

She bit her lip and stared at the ground, observing the nature surrounding her. Strands of her short brown-blondish hair lightly blew from the wind.

He tried to speak again. “What are you doing out here all alone?”

She felt a burst of confidence and decided to answer. 

“I could ask you the same thing.” Came her croaky reply, as her voice was hoarse from weeping.

He snorted. “I just needed to get away from my home I guess.”

Amelia looked at him with a sudden newfound interest. “Oh, me too actually.” He seemed surprised at that comment. 

“I understand. How old are you?” The boy asked wonderingly, casually playing with a twig that lay on the ground. 

She hesitated to tell her age. Amelia’s mother always said to not give personal information to strangers. But then, she suspected he was no danger. She didn’t need to worry.

“I’m four, I’ll be five soon.”

He nodded and attempted to give a half smile. “I’m already five.”

“That’s nice.” She replied instantly, her voice low; like a whisper. 

Amelia felt cold drops of liquid land onto her skin and realized it had started to drizzle. The shade and branches of the trees hanging above her were blocking most of it, but she figured it was time to leave. Her mother might be worried. She would love nothing more than to stay out here in the forest where it is safe and quiet. She wanted to let the drops from the rain wash her pain away.

The girl got up, he followed her actions. 

“Are you sure you’re alright? You seemed to be sad.” The boy stated bluntly, yet with a slight note of concern playing around in his tone of voice. He stared at her with wide, innocent eyes. 

Amelia nodded reassuringly, feeling slightly better. “Yes, I’m okay now. Thanks.” 

She answered in a polite way, remembering how her mother always told her to use manners and to speak nicely. 

The boy nodded and lightly kicked some leaves with the toe of his shoe, shoving his hands in the pockets of his pants. His eyes held a certain soft and friendly emotion.  “That’s good.” 

Amelia nodded then decided nothing more was meant to be said. She turned away and was about to walk towards the direction of the neighborhood when he suddenly spoke; stopping Amelia in her tracks. 

“I’m Caiden, by the way. I live in the neighborhood near these woods.” He spoke in a hesitant yet confident way. 

She looked back towards him and smiled softly, then reached out her small hand out to shake his slightly larger one.

“Me too. I’m Amelia.”

The two innocent children both shyly smiled at each other, then walked together through the lightly pouring rain toward their houses. After they parted ways, their memory of each other faded as the days passed, until their meeting in the forest was forgotten. 

As if it never happened. 

Consuming Hate introduction

People say that hate is a corrupt emotion, that we shouldn’t hate others, because it’s bad or wrong. I believe that the emotion is misjudged. 

Hatred is pointless if the reason is not good enough. One shouldn’t truly hate another for something small. 

Hate is like any other emotion, it’s like love, yet the opposite.
Hatred is an intense and blazing sensation, it bubbles up within someone and consumes them. While love causes you to glow and become a better and happier person. 

Love is like a passionate light, while hatred is like a swirling, maddening darkness.  A never-ending, brewing storm.

Hatred is an emotion that’s as fragile as crackling fire or glass. It burns and builds and breaks you. If it’s in the wrong hands, things get out of control. It’s what makes people lose themselves and develop a strong sense of anger and wrath. Then, it becomes a need for revenge. 

Hatred is only acceptable when there is a good enough reason to hate the person. It’s perfectly okay to hate someone who tormented you, bullied you, and made your life miserable. Or in other words; an abuser. 

That reason is what made me hate him every second of the day, it’s what made me despise his existence. 

I loathe him with every ounce of energy in my body. He has put me through hell and has done unbelievable, humiliating things to me. If someone else was in my position, they would surely hate him as well.

True hatred is that bubbling anger and burning within you. It’s something that’s there at all time. It makes you want to do terrible, sickening and vengeful things. It's shaking hands, grinding teeth and crazed eyes.

It’s being terrified of your own emotions; terrified at the amount of anger and seething rage inside of you.

I’ve felt that kind. 

I know the real feeling of hate. The pulsating, overwhelming feeling. The hate I feel for him is like an inferno, just growing and rising rapidly by every second of the day. It’s horrid and aggressive. 

People often wonder what made me hate the guy so much. They wonder what he could have done to me that grew such an overpowering hate within me. That made such a sweet and kind girl like me want to loathe someone so much, that made me do regrettable things. 

We were the opposite, he made the choice to make me an enemy. I have no idea why. One day, I hope to get an answer. But for now, I drive myself crazy with theories. 

Most people would say that if a boy is mean to you, then he likes you. I can certainly say that is not the case. A guy that’s into a girl and acts mean would playfully tease, maybe play a few pranks, insult not too harshly etc. They would do things, sometimes mean things, to get their attention.

He was horrid, rude and cruel. The things he did wasn’t to get my attention, he simply did those things to torment me. 

Though, I’m not exactly sure when or how he grew a disliking towards me. It’s just always been that way. I tried to be nice to him but obviously it wasn’t enough. 

Or maybe I just wasn’t good enough. That part will always be a mystery to me. 

People say that if you’re being bullied or harassed to tell an adult or get help. They think it’s so easy to go up to someone and announce you’re being tormented, and maybe it is that easy.

I can’t though. 

I’m scared of what he’ll do, and believe me I know what he’ll probably do, because I know what he’s capable of. I’m afraid that he’ll blackmail me, that he’ll make it my fault, that he’ll get even angrier. I’m afraid that he’ll lose control and become even worse. These paranoias consume me during the day and night, I overthink everything that could happen if I snitch, so I concluded that maybe it’s best if nobody knows, and that it’s our little secret. I decided that I’m not destined to win, that’s just not how it is. 

He wins. I lose. Always. 

I’d rather take the beating than tell someone about it and possibly cause something worse to happen. I can honestly say that he’s a monster.

Heartless.

Careless.

Guiltless.

He has never shown an ounce of pity towards me. Whenever I gaze into those hypnotizing brown eyes, all I see is dullness. It’s like a dark empty void. 

He’s incapable of loving or caring. He has absolutely no excuse for what he has been doing to me, or how he’s acted throughout the years. I don’t see how other people don’t see through his fake façade. I don’t see how other people don’t see him for the monster he is. 

How can they be so oblivious? Do they not see the pain I endure from him every day? Maybe they do notice though, but they’re just too scared to do anything, or maybe they don’t even care.

I don’t see how he can be so horrible without consequence; he gets away with even the cruelest things. That made me angry. 

One thing I do know is that karma exists. Someday, he will get what’s coming to him. One day, he will feel the same pain and hurt as I did. When that happens; I will finally be at peace. I will finally be content, knowing that for once he didn’t win and that he endured the same feelings that I feel. 

One last thing I can say is that if we ever do cross paths again, and if he does have a sudden change of heart, nothing he does or say will ever make me forgive him. The things that he had done is unforgivable. Therefore, my consuming hate will never fade even after I die, because just like love;

Hate lasts an eternity.

Winter- a quick short story exercise

Winter is a cold, unbearable season. It’s the time of year that I dread the most. The chills, shivers and the sleepless, aching nights. It’s the time of feeling haunted and bitter. Every time winter comes crawling around the corner like a disease that won’t leave, I immediately feel myself detach from reality and sink into a bleak persona.

In the town where I live, it snows every year. Every year that it snows, I wish that I could go away to sleep and hibernate like a bear. When I sit alone in my small, shadowy home I’m consumed with dreadful and distressing feelings and thoughts as I stare out into the icy atmosphere through the frosted window.

Winter… I hate everything about it. I remember the times, when I was younger, when I would go out and play in the wet and slippery snow. I’d take a sled and meet up with all the neighborhood kids, then I’d sled down hills until my butt went completely numb.

There were times, when winter was tolerable. There were times, when I was at ease.

I am, now, completely resentful.

When I moved to a new home, I thought that would solve the problem. I thought, foolishly, that if I was away from the home in which the nightmare occurred, I’d feel safe and at peace. That was not the case, though. The cold and the snow, the mere season, it follows me like a shadow. I can’t escape it and on someday, insanity grips me. It grabs a hold of me, just enough, so that I feel as if I’m on the verge of losing everything and breaking.

During the night, when everything is quiet, and the temperature is at its lowest, sleep never comes easy. When I do manage to somehow fall asleep, I’m haunted by night terrors of the past.

Sometimes, at night, when my mind is in a fragile state, I can still hear the screams of my mother; crying out in agony and pain while the stranger pierced the knife into her skin and cut her so deeply the stains never came out of the hard-wood floor.

Guilt gnaws at me, it takes me by the throat and squeezes until I feel as if I can barely breathe. I lay awake, thinking of how much of a disgrace that I am. Shame, it overpowers me, and I feel as if I don’t deserve to be under the blankets in the cold weather. I deserve to lay outside and rot just like my mother as the snow covered her body years ago.

I think of what I should have done, and scream at myself at what I did.

The man, he came in unexpectedly. Fear had made its way through me, and I didn’t want to face him. I didn’t think he’d do what he did. I didn’t think things would get so out of hand. But they did, and now I had to live with the deadly consequences of my cowardliness. I am a coward. I am not a hero. I will never be anything good, all that I am is scared.

Never will I ever be able to redeem myself from what I had done. Or, for what I hadn’t done.

I run away from things that seem intimidating and frightening. It’s in my nature, and it is my downfall, my weakness.

The whole time the brutal murder was happening, I was hiding in a closet listening to every cut that he made, listening to every cry for help as my mother choked on her own blood. Fear is a dangerous and weak emotion, because it caused me to become paralyzed and helpless. I did nothing, all because of fear. But, even as I tell myself that, the knowledge that I am to blame always seems to drift into my mind. It is, in fact, the truth. I am at fault, and that is something that haunts me.

My psychiatrist, she tells me that I didn’t directly kill my mother, therefore it’s not my fault. But, I tell her that it is my fault, because I was there and could’ve stopped it, but I didn’t. She could have survived, if I had just done something. Anything. I believe that, if for some bizarre reason, my mother came back alive, she’d accuse me and tell me that I am the reason that she is dead. Then I, would accept that as the truth, and shatter to crumbling pieces.

When I had crept out of hiding in the shadows, it was too late. The man was dragging my mother’s corpse through the front door, leaving a trail of blood behind her.

He dragged her outside, staining the snow with red, and left her body out in the cold.

I tell myself, I was only a teenage girl. What could I have done? All these excuses, they barge into my mind and for a short moment, I feel as if there really was nothing I could have done. But, realistically, I could have done so much more.

Now, my mother is dead, and my father no longer speaks with me, and blames me because of my cowardliness; all because I was too afraid to do something.

I am reminded of that every-time winter appears as it always does, especially tonight, on the anniversary of her death. Winter really does live up to its grim reputation. 

Longing (poetry?) piece based off of a prompt

I long to have ambition and to have the strength to feel the overwhelming urge to run and chase after what I want. I long to not be ambitionless and afraid; cowering in the corner like a scared dog. I take a small step forward then always get pushed back by any minor setback. I long to have goals and plans, to be able to think about my future and not feel hopeless and tired. To know where I’m going and what I want to be. I long to not wake up every day to a regular routine and never going after new things.

I long for inspiration and spontaneous ideas, I long for purpose and desires. I long to be able to push through what I’m doing and being able to finish without crying out in frustration, yanking at my hair and giving up so easily. I long for the feeling of accomplishment and feeling proud of dreams. I long to have an impact on anyone or anything and not feeling like I’ve done nothing meaningful in this measly life.

I merely long for the determination and drive that pushes someone towards something good and successful in life. I long to not feel the self-loathing and irritation as I realize that everyone around me has an ambition and talent that they’re working on or racing towards while I’m left in the dust. Standing here with nothing to hold onto and nothing to keep me going.

I try to keep up but I always end up falling down and self-sabotaging myself.

I long for the need to pursue and explore the little skills and talents I possess for a possible career and future. It's an out of body experience as I'm standing there yelling and kicking at myself to get up and do something in life yet I never listen. I'm stuck in my own mind, so terrified to step out into reality and face the consequences and obstacles. 

I long to not live by the toxic motto that it's safer and easier to not pursue and that it's better to stay where I'm at and not venture out further. 

I long to be able to grasp at the small spark that grows within me and not let it slip through my fingers and die back down then feeling so angry at myself for letting it fall and break away so easily again. I long to tell myself that next time I'll get it right yet when the time comes around I make the same mistake over and over. 

I long for the sound of clapping, cheerful voices and prideful, happy stares as they congratulate me and not the sound of lectures and disappointed tones as I hear the same thing over and over again. 

The displeased looks of peers as they wonder where I’m going in life, yet I wonder the same thing.

I long to not hear saddening and barren tones playing like a broken record. I long to not see the disappointing shaking of heads and eyes staring at me like I’m crazy.

I long to not feel discouraged and upset thinking about all the things I haven’t accomplished. I long for easy and bright days, happy mornings and a clear mind. I long to be able to make a difference. I long for everything to not feel so uninteresting and scrambled. I long to not feel like everything’s going downhill and time seems to be stuck in place and not moving forward.

I long to be something other than ambitionless, cowardly and goalless. I long to not give up so easily and to race to the finish line without stopping so often and eventually never getting there.

I’m lying on the ground staring helplessly at the finish line and it seems so far away in the distance then sometimes the line is right there yet I never make it. I long to not feel overwhelmed when things get too complicated and hard.

I long to not feel so self-destructive, helpless and hopeless with everything and everyone. 

I long to have something to believe in; I long for someone to believe in me.

Most importantly; I long to believe in myself. But that faith died out long ago.

Anger; a prose poem

Anger starts off small. It begins as a dim irritation and bitterness then slowly builds with each day. 

Anger is an emotion that’s uncontrollable; like a raging fire that can’t be stopped. It’s consuming and blinding. It’s an overwhelming feeling that can screw you over if not dealt with properly.

The rage; it’s a scary feeling. That building fire in the pit of your stomach that you know you can’t stop. It’s scary, knowing what anger can do to someone. Someone who can be soft and kind. It turns angels into monsters. It comes and goes sure, but the overall outcome is terrifying when it comes up like a volcano about to erupt.

The shaking of the hands, the grinding of the teeth, the heat building and feeling like you have no control over your body and mouth. It’s like being possessed by yourself. An ugly version of you. 

Someone you hate bringing out in public.

You let them free in the privacy of enclosed spaces with no one around that you can hurt. But sometimes, unfortunately, they slip out into the open and terrify everyone around you. Once that raging fire comes out into the public and once the people see that mess of insanity there’s no going back.

The reputation and mask that you’ve built up to try and save yourself breaks away and you become a stranger to people around you in the moment of the heat.

Anger is powerful. It’s dark red and paralyzing. It can’t be tamed or held back. The lashing out and violent words eventually sneak their way out. It turns you into a raging stallion that damages anything in its path. It leaves whomever gets into its way burnt and damaged; wounds that can’t be forgotten or healed.

The anger and rage. The terrible resentment and loathing. Wrath and fury. Overwhelming indignation and aggravation over minor and major things. Consuming annoyance. It builds up over the years and it comes out in small pieces or shows itself in an enormous explosion.

Some deal with it in minor ways and it doesn’t become a big part of who they are.

Some anger is small and delicate. It can be held back and contained. It comes out softly and in slight ways. Some anger is regular and average, the type that comes out appropriately. It’s the type of anger that doesn’t come out due to being held down for so many years. It shows in the right moment.

Others are unfortunate. The rage becomes ugly and explosive. It becomes a part of that being. All they are, all that they will be, is angry. Violent. Aggressive. It’s the outcome of pushed down emotions and hate.

Once that door is opened, it can’t be shut or stopped. It’s a building storm that’s stuck on repeat.

Seething, spitting and fuming, it’s a boiling pit of heat and trembles.

It’s always being in rotten moods, getting weird looks in public and always walking on eggshells. Just waiting for anything, anyone, to trigger and set off the ticking bomb of fury. Constantly fighting to hold yourself and bite your tongue. Constantly having internal battles of telling yourself to stop and not explode.

Anger is feeling defensive over everything and feeling physical pains and urges; some so strong it almost knocks you off your feet and makes your head spin. It’s snapping easily and pacing back and forth. Screaming in frustration when you’re alone and doing petty, wrathful things without thinking. It's a burning and endless disease that can't easily be cured.

It’s feeling hopeless and hateful of yourself as you take it out on others but not being able to stop. It’s like an out of body experience; watching it all unfold but having no control. Feeling so evil and ill.

Crazed eyes and whispers behind your back; feeling so helpless yet enraged and empowered.

Eventually, the anger and pure hate gets turned around and directs itself at you.

The strength that it takes to hold the anger back is like trying to contain and raging bull. It’s hopeless and almost impossible.

It’s simply an ugly emotion and turns once good people into a raging, bad-tempered disaster; and everyone knows disasters ruin everything in their path.

Especially when it's out of control and has built up too much. 

Lonely Dog Poem

I just found this poem that I had written when I was around 13-14 y/o for an assignment in writing camp; wish I could still write poetry because I suck at it now. kinda ironic. 

the dog roams the land;
searching for someone, a place to call home,
and somewhere to be safe.
he searches the city,
he searches the country,
but wherever the pup goes, satisfaction will never come.
he sleeps in the dark, cold and alone.
wishing for something to come along, so maybe just maybe,
he can share his loneliness with someone new.

A Halloween Massacre short story

Vacations were supposed to be something joyful and memorable; this vacation wasn’t like that at all. This vacation was the opposite. It was a traumatic nightmare. It was one that would haunt Veronica until her death.

When you watch horror and thriller movies you never expect something like that to happen to you. It’s something that happens to other people and to characters in fictional books. We forget that these things do happen. They can happen at any time. They can happen to you. 

Veronica was only gone for fifteen minutes. In that span of time a bloody massacre had happened and she was completely unaware that it could have happened. She could clearly remember laughing with her family before she left to run to the store. They were alive only fifteen minutes ago.

Now, they lay lifeless in the body bags as the ambulance drives them away to a morgue.

It had been dead silent when she returned. It only took a few seconds for her to discover that her family had been murdered; their throats messily slashed and wounds all over their bodies. Their blood leaking out and drying around them.

Her mother was the first she found. She was sitting in the brown reclining chair in the family room. Her father was a couple feet away from her on the floor. The detectives could determine that it was a blitz attack; they hadn’t expected it. They said the attacker must’ve slashed her mother’s throat then her father heard the commotion and came running in, but soon met his tragic fate by the edge of a blade.

His face was barely recognizable.

Veronica’s two younger sisters were outside behind the house; their bodies had been dumped into the small pond. They were floating face down. The water was blood red. The police guessed they had tried to run, but were unsuccessful.

She couldn’t stop picturing them flailing and choking on their own blood as they bled out. She only hoped that the killer was merciful enough to wait until after they died when he had cut out their eyeballs, chopped their fingers off and carved into their hearts.

The last thing Veronica found, which chilled her to the bone, were the words “Happy Halloween Veronica.”

It was written in their blood on the wall.

A few days later she received a package from an anonymous sender. In the package, she found her family’s fingers and eyeballs. There was also a note.

Trick or treat! You get a trick since you didn’t accept my offer to treat you to a dinner date. Tsk tsk. Wrong choice Veronica. Hope you enjoyed your Halloween.

There was no signature but Veronica knew who it was from. The massacre hadn’t been a random act of terror and worst of all the killer wasn’t just some stranger. She knew him. Now her family was dead just because she had refused to go out on a date with her best friend.