It began as pins and needles, a trembling in her torso and a cold unease that spread like iced water from her groin to the back of her neck.
“You chose to be here,” he said, reaching out to touch her upper arm in the dark, surging water. Phosphorus trailed along the hairs of his forearm, trickling back into shadow.
‘I’ve given everything for you, my whole life, it’s nothing now, and you..’
She didn’t finish her sentence, couldn’t put the enormity of her emotions, her hatred and pain, into mere words. Or perhaps she could have, into her words, but not his, not this human language that she still grappled with as if it were a pair of unfamiliar crutches, awkward and inadequate.
He stood there, chest deep, silent. She breathed, felt herself grow with each intake, her body expanding with rage, with hopelessness, her fingers laced into the wide dark sea, her heart a whirlpool, her mouth a cave big enough to swallow this man and all who sailed in him. Her eyes widened, the pupils flared, bottomless in the night. She drew her lips back from her teeth, the sharp unforgiving jaws of a tiger shark, fast, powerful, deadly.
She reached out and put her two hands softly on his strong, once-dear neck. How soft it was. She could feel his pulse, a weak signal in the vastness. Now she was warm, hot, heat raced to the end of her fingertips, to the long fingernails which rested lightly around his carotid. In her mind the nails became claws, rock-hard, stone-cruel, coral-sharp.
You’re drawing blood.
Did he say that or did she? Her mind and her body were full with blood, bursting with it. Even the sea seemed tinged with red, though the sun had set hours ago. She put a hand to her mouth, tasted the salt thickness of it. She saw him as he would be, soon, ripped end to end, entrails slipping out into the current, swirling, dark blood warm against her body. She would wrap herself in them, lashing them around and around, till he was hollow and she clothed triumphantly in his torn, wet organs. She would suck out those green eyes, round and soft like oysters, feel his screams slide down her throat and swallow them with eager, fierce gladness. She would take him by the hair and hold his face against her breasts, struggling and choking, till the water ended him. She would..
She held him close. His body rose to the surface, there was air in him yet, but no life. She cried out, a thin, whistling sound no human could make, threw her arms around him and let the waves carry them together towards the empty, moonlit sand.
This is me exploring what it might be like to be really angry. I have difficulties with anger. I feel it sometimes, but I never really know what to do with it, or how to deal with it. I don’t like being angry. I can’t ‘do’ anger but sometimes I want to let loose a vast rage which would tear the world apart, or at least sweep away the person in my immediate vicinity, like a shed in a flash flood. Luckily, only in fiction!