“Exploring life through fiction, together.” 

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I had a punchbag in my room as a teenager. I would pretend I was Jet Li destroying a room full of bad guys with secret Kung Fu. Other times, I’d just need to beat something to a pulp and would smash until my knuckles bled and I couldn’t lift my arms for another blow.

Fiction Bite - Don’t bottle the rage

The breaker bar landed with a cold, dull thwack. She didn’t scream, didn’t make a sound.

“Why’d you do it?”

Thwack.

Silence.

“Didn’t I buy you nice things?”

Thwack.

“Pay for your holidays?”

Thwack.

“Come home with flowers?”

Thwack.

“Why couldn’t you just love me?”

This time, he crashed the long metal shaft through her lips. He was driving it down her throat when the front door opened.

“Honey, I’m home,” called his wife. He froze.

“I’ll be down in a second.”

She lay motionless beneath him, watching for the next blow. He sighed and planted a kiss on her latex forehead.

“I’ll be back when she’s asleep. Don’t move.”

The tang of her almost-skin hung in his mouth as he climbed downstairs and padded into the kitchen.

“How’s the new counsellor?” asked his wife. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Much,” he said, “she’s a doll.” 

Quote of the Week

“When angry, count to four; when very angry, swear.” — Mark Twain.

Book of the month

The Circuit by Francisco Jiménez (or read the Spanish version, also translated by Jiménez)

Final Words

I was never truly drained. The rage would come back burning just as hot. Only this time, I could hit a little harder and punch a little longer. Letting it out didn’t make it go away. Meditation did. Philosophy did. But punching? I just got better at it. Now, I can’t remember the last time my blood boiled so hot. Most of me thinks that’s a victory. But a slither wonders; what did I lose by cutting it out?

What do you think?

With Love,

Josiah

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