Anger Management

5-4-20

The blood rests against my arm, leaving little puddles around me. I smile at it, mesmerized. 

Sociopath.

Macochist.

I let the little voice tell me what I am; no point in denying what I know is true.

You don't even know why you're angry.

You're right, I don't. I stand, not bothering to pull the glass out of my arms. It stings, and I love it. It reminds me that no matter how much I do it, there's always the same feeling. I'm not insane. Insanity has been described as doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results. I don't expect anything different. 

I get angered.
I bleed.
It hurts for a minute.
It stops.
Repeat.

Eventually I feel numb; so much anger that I can't feel. My heart beats a rhythem. 

Kill. 
Kill.
Kill.

I laugh - not a soft one, but a full cackle. My eyes, as I see in the reflection of the broken mirror, are turning orange; something that only happens in full anger and hatred.  Their usual blue-grey dissapears completly as the orange practically glows, showing the fire I was named after.

Ember.

That's what it is. I am the fire you can't tame. I am the heat that spreads. I am the smoke that chokes you, smiling as you suffocate and die. I laugh again, walking to my door. I feel someone grab my shoulder and turn to see the face of one of my friends.

"Ember?" His voice seems distant. Friend, I said, right? That's not the right word. I know them enough to know that they have a family who loves them. An older sister and a younger brother who thinks the world of him. A mother who worries about him every night, and a father who he hunts with. His blue eyes drill into mine.

They're so soft; so calm. He's always so nice and laid back. He never angers. Never has to feel this unbearable feeling that never seems to die, but only burns and feeds on all my happiness.

And I hate him for it.

I feel the pocket knife resting in my hoodie, and pull it out.

"Ember?" His voice becomes unsteady as my orange eyes flicker. One simple motion cuts off any other words he had to say. The world seems to slow down as it replays in my mind.

The knife makes contact with his throat, blood forms immediatly. The skin tears like silk, ripping at the edge of the blade. He falls to the floor, unmoving. I laugh.

You just murdered your friend.

I know. And I love it. I don't care that he's dead. Friend. That's not a use to me. That won't help me. The therapy, the pills, the blood. The 'friends'. None of them helped. They made it worse.

Therapy taught me how to lie and keep my face emotionless.

Pills got me addicted, and back into therapy for it.

The blood was seen as attention seeking, pushing people away and getting me in trouble.

And the friends. They watched it all unfold, smiles plastered on thier perfect faces. They laugh.

Look who's laughing now.