Eternal Ephemerals

Control

The room was quiet, too quiet. The kind of silence that felt oppressive, that made the ticking of the clock on the wall sound like thunder in his ears. Ryan sat at the edge of the couch, his hands clenched into tight fists on his knees. His knuckles were pale, and he could feel the tension humming through his body, the familiar coil of anger wrapping itself around his chest, tighter with each passing second.

He stared at the floor, trying to breathe, trying to focus on something, anything, that would keep the fire inside him from spilling over. His jaw was clenched so hard he thought his teeth might crack.

The argument had been stupid, as they always were. Something small, something insignificant—a throwaway comment, a careless word—but now it felt like an avalanche, like everything had been building to this point, to this moment where it all threatened to explode. Again.

His vision blurred for a second, his pulse thudding in his ears. Not this time, he told himself. You can control this.

But could he? Anger had always been there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for the smallest spark to set it off. He didn't know why it came so easily for him, why it rose up in him like a tidal wave he couldn't stop. It was an old, familiar thing, this anger—like an unwelcome visitor he'd never quite learned to send away.

Ryan wasn't sure when it had started, but if he thought hard enough, he could trace it back to those early days. His father, standing in the kitchen with his fists on the table, eyes cold, voice sharp. The house had always been tense back then, like there was something volatile in the air, something waiting to break. Anger had lived in their house, in the walls, in the silence that followed the shouting.

Maybe he had learned it there, in the echo of his father's voice, in the way his mother would retreat into herself, folding inward like a paper bird. Maybe it had been there all along, something woven into his DNA.

He felt it now, that same heat rising in him, that instinct to lash out, to yell, to throw something just to release the pressure building inside him. It had happened before. Too many times. Shouted words, slammed doors, things broken in the heat of a moment that later filled him with shame. He hated himself afterward, hated the loss of control, the way he let himself be overtaken by something so wild, so destructive.

Not again. I won't let it happen again.

His breaths were shallow, fast, too fast. He needed to slow down. He needed to think.

His eyes flicked to the window, where the late afternoon light was filtering through, casting a soft glow across the room. Outside, the world was calm. Birds were perched on the fence, a light breeze moved through the trees, people were walking their dogs. The kind of peace that seemed so far from where he was, inside this room, battling himself.

Ryan's hands were still clenched, his nails digging into his palms, and he realized he was holding his breath again.

Breathe, he told himself. Slow it down.

It wasn't easy, not for him. Anger was his default. It felt like control sometimes, when everything else was slipping. Like if he could just hold onto that feeling—let it out in a burst—it would put everything right. But he knew better. He'd been here before, so many times, and it never put anything right. It just made things worse.

He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on his breath. In. Out. In. Out. Slower. Deeper. He could feel the muscles in his neck and shoulders start to unclench, the heat in his chest loosening just a little.

Don't let it take over. Don't let it own you.

His therapist's voice echoed in his mind, a steady reminder in moments like these. Anger is just energy. You can channel it, or you can let it explode. The choice is yours.

That had been the hard part to accept—that he had a choice. For years, it didn't feel like a choice. It felt like something that happened to him, like he was a passenger in his own body, watching the explosion from a distance, helpless to stop it.

But she had told him otherwise. She had told him that anger didn't have to control him—that it didn't have to be the thing that defined him. And somewhere deep down, he wanted to believe her. He wanted to believe that he wasn't destined to be like his father—that he could be something else, someone else.

You don't have to be this way.

He opened his eyes, focusing on a single point on the floor, grounding himself. He could still feel the anger simmering beneath the surface, but it was quieter now, more distant. He wasn't as close to the edge as he had been a few moments ago.

His hands relaxed, his fists unclenching, though he could still feel the dull ache where his nails had bitten into his skin.

It's just energy.

His therapist had told him to think of it like a fire. Fire could burn everything down, turn everything to ash, but it could also warm you. It could also create light. The difference was in how you used it.

Ryan stood up from the couch, feeling the tension drain from his legs. He crossed the room slowly, feeling his feet connect with the floor. Ground yourself in the present. Another piece of advice he hadn't quite understood at first. But now, in these moments when the fire inside him was threatening to consume everything, he understood it a little better.

He walked to the window, placing his hands against the cool glass, and looked outside. The breeze was picking up now, rustling the leaves in the trees. He watched the way they swayed, bending with the wind instead of breaking against it. Flexibility. Another thing he had to learn.

For so long, he had thought of anger as something powerful, something necessary to protect himself. But all it had ever done was burn through him, leaving him hollow. The people he loved—his friends, his girlfriend, his family—they'd all been caught in the crossfire more times than he could count. Apologies followed by promises to be better, only to find himself right back here, teetering on the edge of another explosion.

But something was different this time.

He could feel it. This time, he hadn't let it control him. This time, he had chosen to pull back before the fire consumed him, before he said something he couldn't take back or broke something that couldn't be fixed. He had chosen not to let it own him.

The anger was still there. It always would be, he supposed. It was part of him, as much as anything else. But he was learning—learning that it didn't have to be destructive. That it could be a signal instead, a reminder that something inside him needed attention, needed care.

It's just energy, he repeated to himself, feeling the weight of the words sink in.

And for the first time, he believed it.