I’ve always taken a sort of pleasure in rage. Adrenaline junkies usually get their rush by getting scared, I get mine by getting angry. It’s always made me feel powerful, like I could crush the subjects of my anger with my bare hands, or even through my sheer force of emotion. Not to mention, it’s always felt satisfying to me to release my hate and rage after letting it build up as much as it could.

      As a result, I would find any excuse I could to be angry. I would hold grudges for every wrong that was committed against me, intentionally or not. I would judge people for any quality that could be interpreted as negative. I would adopt opinions that weren’t my own and fight for causes I didn’t believe in, all with the intent of summoning “righteous” indignation. The only music, movies, or books that I ingested were ones that I thought could fuel the fire. Needless to say, I didn’t have many friends, and I held that against everyone around me.

          My methods worked, however. I got my fill of anger quite often. I could flawlessly summon the feeling with a mere thought, and I enjoyed it every time. After a while, however, merely feeling or expressing my anger was not enough. I had to act upon it. So, that’s what I did.

      I began to fight, to attack, to shed blood in service of my anger. I began to train myself, so that I could beat those on my level, and dominate those beneath me. I began to enjoy the suffering of the targets of my rage as much as the feeling itself. I may have been violent, I may have been dangerous, I may have been alone, but I liked it that way. I’d always dreamed of being like this, and here I was, living that dream to the fullest. That’s why, when I saw a man who’d been following me, I took that opportunity to confront him.

          I cursed at him, threatened him, I told him what I would do if he didn’t leave me alone, and hoped that he would not. He said nothing, he simply stared at me from across the empty night street. There was something in his gaze that made me uneasy, and that just angered me even more. I began to run across the street at him, my wrath blinding me to the meaning of that smirk that grew on the man’s face, or the light that was hitting me from the side, or the roar of the engine that was flooding my ears before I could ever react.

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