Rage and Homicidal Tendencies

Essay by killjoy February 2004

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It's all been planned. No evidence to point towards me. I've taken all the necessary steps, accounted for all the details. My right hand, wrapped in a leather glove, is in the pocket of my trench coat, grasping a revolver. The left one pushes open the heavy iron gat. Walking up the steps to the front door, blood red images of rage flash through my head. They fill my insides with fire and knives until I want to scream. But I stop myself. No screaming. I have to be a ghost.

When I turn the handle on the front door and see the perfect little world inside, I almost have to laugh. White walls, carpets, and furniture. No amount of fabric and paint can mask the selfishness inside.

Through the living room and into the hallway of this house of lies. Pictures line the walls, pictures of fallacy and deception.

Only a fool could look at these glossy facades of life and see truth and beauty. Only a fool like me.

To the bedroom, now. Pushing the unlatched door open is like opening the floodgates of my rage. Sitting at the vanity table, I see her eyes in the mirror's reflection. Beautiful, deep, deceptive eyes, and my vision fills with red. All the memories play out before me. Not on a scratchy, mute film roll, but in flesh and blood, as if I'm living it all over again.

Every time I hurt and she didn't care. Every time a new distraction came along and she left me standing there, confused and alone. Every time her heart was broken and she came running back into my open arms. All the times she lied, telling me I was her best friend. And then, yesterday. The day she told...