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Have you ever wanted to throw something?
No, not just throw; to break something—maybe to pick up that glass or that vase and smash it against the floor, the wall, the cupboard, hear the satisfying smash as it breaks into thousands of tiny pieces, feel a similar ball something hard and choking in your chest be crushed? To feel it, the sudden burst of emotion, to 'take it out' on someone, to feel the appeasing pain as your knuckles hit flesh, the broken bones under them, the spatter of blood on your skin, warm and wet? Have you ever felt that angry?
Well, I have.
And unlike most people, I didn't have to hold it in and wait for it to dissolve.
I lifted the baseball bat as the man came at me, eyes widening as he realized I was armed. I could see the other henchmen behind him—so that's why there were no bouncers at the back door—and hefted the bat, feeling its reassuring weight in my hands, the smooth grip in my fists. As the man skidded to a stop, terror in his eyes, I smiled—no, I grinned, a manic grin that came without telling me—and swung the bat.
If you've never had the pleasure of breaking a vase, you might wonder, how does it feel? I can tell you that.
It feels fucking great.
The bat connected with his skull with a pleasant thwack, and his head whipped sideways. An unstoppable feeling rose in my abdomen, a feeling that was so great that my chest felt like it was expanding to accommodate it. Satisfaction. The scene unfurled in slow motion in front of my hungry eyes, the specks of blood flying from his mouth, the perfect sound of something cracking and breaking. Yes, this was much better than a knife, which came and went silently, dissatisfying. Much, much better.
Then time went back to normal, and the man fell to the floor like a ton of heavy bricks, not to move again. I stepped over his body, careful not to ruin my handiwork, and moved towards the other men with a rictus grin on my lips, probably looking like a psychopath. Some drew their guns, but most ran. Smart decision.
For the next few seconds, my mind was blank with pent-up rage, dizzy with the desire to feel the jarring recoil against my bones as the baseball bat smashed against noses and chests, and a groin. The bullets were easy to miss. It was as if my subconscious had taken over, and was taking control over my body with my conscious mind asleep. It was exhilarating—my vision was tinted red, and when I ultimately emerged from the hallway, I was a raving mess, bloody and grinning.
It took a few moments for me to come back to my senses. I dropped the bat, chest heaving, curling and uncurling my fingers to feel the slight ache in my bones from the repeated attacks. I checked my clothes. They were bloody, but I was intact, as surprising as that was.
Okay, I thought, blinking. Suddenly, I felt a little queasy. Now that I remembered the situation I was in, panic was beginning to set in again. No, no, no. I couldn't let it take control of me again, not after such an enlivening experience. Power through it, I told myself, closing my eyes for a few seconds to remember the look on Jungkook's face. Don't think about it. Find the eye of the storm.
