The Guily Ones

Angry Eyes

I packed my things that very same evening and made sure to disappear from the city. It wasn't the first time I had packed up and left, and it certainly wouldn't be the last, that much was certain.

I stayed with acquaintances in Oregon for a few days, but after not managing to leave the bed for two weeks, I was kicked out of the apartment.

I was "moping" too much.

Well, it seemed like a murdered boyfriend was quite a mood killer, as it appeared.

I only got back on my feet after a month.

Through a bar fight, of all things.

I had originally entered the bar to drown my sorrows. That had worked well in the weeks prior, plus my brain would let me rest for a few hours when I fell into a coma from excessive alcohol consumption. On this particular evening however, I had a particularly persistent admirer sitting next to me on the bar stool, who just wouldn't take no for an answer.

"Come on, darling, just one drink!" he slurred repeatedly in my direction.

His hand made its way up my thigh in a clear gesture. I slapped it away and glared at him.

"No!"

He laughed.

"Oh, feisty. I like that best!"

His fingers became more aggressive in their wandering, so I stood up in outrage and backed away. "HANDS OFF!" I hissed.

He, too, stood up, surprisingly nimble considering his level of intoxication, and pushed me further back.

"But I can do such wonderful things with my hands... and with my mouth and with my tongue and with my..."

He came closer, pushing me against the back wall of the bar. It was loud, it was crowded, no one paid any attention to us. All escape routes were blocked for me, I realized a moment to late as hee grinned lasciviously, smelling of sweat and booze and cheap perfume. I tried to push him away, but I couldn't do anything against him. I was physically at and disadvantage against him and we both knew it.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk..." he clicked his tongue. Then he pressed himself against me,   trying to force his tongue down my throat. Hot anger surged through me, my surroundings switching back into focus again. Then, everything seemed to happen at a slower pace. Felt lighter. With unexpected strength, I pushed him back. He fell backwards over a bar table and broke a chair.

"You bitch!" he shouted furiously and came towards me hands raised for a fight. In slow motion, I saw him winding up and deftly dodged. Then I struck back and gave the man my first ever punch to the jaw. It cracked, it crunched, then it became silent around us. Of course, we were both thrown out of the bar separately, and someone had called the cops, so I quickly made sure to move on, but I had discovered something.

For one: Punching someone with your fist was incredibly painful. 

And secondly, I just discovered how to find my way back from this black whole that'd threatened to devour me whole: Anger. Anger and a hefty dose of physical violence.

But instead of succumbing directly to the bloodlust, I took the "healthy" path first.

Exercise. Martial arts, to be precise. But only hitting a punching bag or padded pillows was like putting a band-aid on a gunshot wound. Enough for maybe 2 minutes, but sooner or later someone would have to remove the bullet and then stitch up the wound.

Just the thought that someone was out there, freely roaming the world and getting away with killing Tom, made me see red. Whenever I tried to recreate in my head what had happened that day, my head felt fuzzy, detailed felt like they escaped me. Just none of that made any sense. With each passing day, the anger inside me grew hotter and sharper, itching for a way out. A target to be aimed at. But I had no lead. No idea how I could go about finding the man who ruined my life.