Rage

by Ryan, Paul W.

  “It’s never too late, you know.”

  “It is,” I replied. “It really is. Each day I’m getting older and feeling more useless.”

  “You’re only as old as you feel, you know that.”

  “Then why do I feel about sixty?”

  Sarah started laughing. I couldn’t help but join in.

  “Sorry, that was stupid.”

  “Try smiling once in a while, Pete. It’s a good look for you. You asked me how I do it: the truth is that it’s always going to be difficult, and deep down, maybe everyone’s a little angry or jealous, but we must look to the little things, those little moments like this one today. We look at these little moments and well . . . we smile. That’s what I wanted to show you today.”

  Before her, the only happiness I seemed to feel was while beating someone half to death or at the end of a bottle.

  I let myself have a small smile. Fuck it, even monsters are allowed to smile every once in a while, and for once, I felt pretty good about myself.

  “So come on, tell me more about the great mystery that is Peter Clayton.”

  “You’re starting to sound like an interviewer,” I jested. “I thought you were supposed to be a counsellor, no? Come on, Sarah, I thought you had gathered enough notes about me over the three years anyway.”

  “Fine, I’ll go easy on you.” She threw her hands up in surrender. “Call it, a life interview then, if you prefer. Only three questions: but you must answer honestly, all right?”

  I raised an eyebrow; she smiled.

  “No holding back on me now, okay? I want the full truth and nothing less.”

  “Fine, fine, if it’ll get you off my back.”

  “All right then, cult leader. Question number one: What do you like to do in your free time?”

  I shrugged.

  “What about your interests?”

  I lowered my gaze.

  Well, Sarah, I enjoy meeting my friends to attack random people for a bit of fun and to relieve some stress. Why, just last week we beat a poor man to death; left his wife and kid without their father, and no-one seems to give a damn apart from a tiny hundred-word article on page twelve in the local newspaper. What do you like to do? Long walks on the beach? Travelling? Candlelit dinners? I'm sure she'd love to hear that.

  Her delicate fingers looked like they were being swallowed into my stubby, sweaty palms.

  “I'm really not that interesting of a person,” I said. “I just don't find interest in normal things.”

  She pulled my hands back towards her in a soothing embrace. Her innocent, blue eyes glistened like two crystal-clear oceans.

  “I know why you’re so angry.”

  I paused.

  Shit, did she know the real me? Had she seen the monster, the rage junkie I had tried to hide from her all these years?

  She nodded to herself as if she could hear my thoughts all along.

  “You're angry because you feel that since you have no job, it's a reflection of you.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “A job is just something you do, whether you love it or not—it doesn’t define who you are, okay?”

  I tried to reply, but my words felt lost. Try telling that to my father. If he stays sober long enough to listen.

  “Some days I feel like some kind of monster.”

  “Come on, Pete, don’t say that,” she tried to reassure me. “You're a great man with a good heart. You're not a monster.”

  “You don't even know half of the things that go through my head on a daily basis.”

  Her grip tightened as the words left my mouth.

  “That's just the anger talking. You need to stop hating yourself and grow to love again.”

  I managed a weak smile at her.

  “I think you’re the only one that shows me any kind of love these days.”

  Her grip loosened, but my fingers fought to keep them close.

  “Pete, please, we have been over this before.”

  Her fingers squirmed, but I kept them locked in my grasp.

  “Peter, please, you’re hurting me . . .”

  Her future was a clean stretch of pure, white sand. And here I was, dragging my feet and beckoning the sea to rise and wash us both away.

  “You’re the only one who was seen the monster in me and said that you’re not afraid. Do you think you could ever grow to love me?”

  I looked up to see her face, but it was no longer the beautiful face that I remembered. Her features had contorted into a mask of pain and fear. She looked at me with wide, panicked eyes. I released my grip, and she snapped her hand back, cradling her fingers against her chest.

  I stared dumbstruck at her swollen hand, unable to meet her eyes. That look of silent terror had washed away all her smiles and warmth.

  I left a ten-dollar bill on the table and walked away without a word.

  * * *

  I lay on my couch for what felt like hours, trying to forget about Sarah. The scrapbook of our Playdates lay open on the floor, taunting me with who I was now.

  There was no turning away from the person I had become. I was a monster—a rage junkie. Photographs of places I had been, things I had done.

  Had all those times been me? Or just the fragmented, half-researched memories of others?

  Little hundred word fragments of my past.

  Not a single birthday, Thanksgiving or Christmas to be found.

  I picked up the scrapbook from the floor and started flicking through its pages. Each story was another horror tale, another little rage seed we had planted, stretching to every corner of this city.

  I was halfway through an article when the phone rang.

  “What?” I snapped, unsure of where the frustration was coming from.

  “Well, fuck you too, buddy.” Jason was clearly not in the mood. “11 pm, Thursday. Know the basement of Domination?”

  “Where?”

  “That weird little nightclub off 5th and 32nd for all those bondage freaks.”

  “What?”

  Jason sighed down the other end of the phone.

  “Just look it up online. And don't forget to wear leather.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because otherwise they won't let you in, dipshit.”

  “When have you ever seen me wear leather?”

  “God, Pete, you’re starting to piss me off already. Look, just be there, okay?”

  “I don’t know if I'm in the mood.”

  “The fuck man?!” Jason suddenly exploded down the phone. “We’re doing this whether you like it or not. This is my night, got it? My night! You had better show the fuck up, or it'll be your ass kicked next.”

  “I'd love to see you try.”

  I hung up before he could yell a response.

  FROM THE DIARY OF PETER CLAYTON

  In general, I was a good kid; it took a lot to make me angry. Even with my father’s behaviour/absence, I was still pretty calm. But once I reached boiling point, I sort of lost it

  In my teens, without thinking, I would grab the nearest rock or stick and want to bash someone until all the anger went away.

  As you’ve probably guessed, I got (and still get) into a lot of fights and have gotten pretty good at it as a result. There's little science or skill behind it really. Whoever is angriest, most relentless, and unforgiving is the one who wins.

  I know it's wrong to beat on people like this, and I guess I don't really enjoy it. It's just as if I have no conscious thought in the matters; it's like the only way I can truly communicate, truly bond with people.

  It's like a smoker for example: they don't think about the harmful toxins they are introducing into their bloodstreams, it's all about the feeling, that little rush, curing that itch, or whatever.

  They say anger has a way of seeping into every emotion and planting itself there. It seeps in like a toxin in the air and weaves through every pore until it is rotting the core of you. It felt like the complete opposite for me.

/>   To me, it felt like a purging—a detox. My fists and feet were just writing tools. The bruises, cuts, and scars were just nouns, commas, and full stops.

  People spoke a different language to me. I say: let them be placid and tame. Let them speak in hushed whispers, and frightened whimpers, or in roundabout ways with hidden agendas. Let them avoid all human contact like the plague, cowering behind their phones or PC screens in all their passive aggressive glory—anything to distance themselves from others.

  People are too afraid to say what they really want to say.

  About the anger that stirs inside every one of us.

  CHAPTER 18

  I lit another cigarette and flicked through the magazine in my hands. I didn’t really want to read, I just needed to keep my mind occupied, something to fill it with other than the racing thoughts going through my head. Ad after ad, all I saw were pictures of half-naked models trying to sell the next 'must have' perfume, cell phone, chewing gum et cetera. One of them even had a picture of Alice, naked but for a whisper of smoke barely covering her subtle breasts and exposed thighs as she flashed a seductive grin. In the far distance, almost out of focus, was a new man’s deodorant.

  “There’s no smoking allowed in here,” a voice called out at me. I could sense the annoyance in the voice, but hell, I was annoyed. I’ll damn well light up wherever I please, sir. Thank you very much.

  “You may go in now,” one of the nurses announced. Her body was elongated and her slender spectacles perched on her beak like nose. Kind of attractive, but I couldn’t stop thinking how she looked like big bird.

  That’s very productive thinking right there. Need to get my head straight. Now’s not the time for silly thoughts. Plus, she is probably too old for me anyways.

  I straightened up my posture and knocked three times, too nervous to call out. No reply.

  The nurse gestured for me to enter.

  I saw him sitting on the bed attached to all these tubes, and I couldn't tell where he began, and the machine ended. He motioned for me to come closer.

  “I should have known something was up—the nurses only ever knock twice . . .” A small, sardonic smile formed on his lips. I tried to mimic it, but it felt weak and false.

  “You look good, Pete. Happier than I usually remember you.”

  “Thanks, you look—” I paused. His eyes were dim, and I could sense the sorrow he was hiding.

  “Bad enough to startle you?”

  “I didn’t mean . . . I—” I cleared my throat but just couldn't find the words. He laughed softly; the warmth long stripped from his voice.

  “Why didn't you tell me?”

  “I didn't want to worry you . . .” He turned his head towards the window.

  “Don’t bother feeling sorry for me. I wouldn't expect you to be.”

  “I don't blame you for everything,” I said, but it came out dry and unconvincing.

  The silence in the room became irritating.

  I fumbled through my pockets and pulled out a cigarette. As I began to light it up, a look of annoyance marred my dad's face.

  “When’d you start smoking?” he asked me.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “When’d you start smoking, Peter?” he asked again.

  “I picked it up off a friend. I guess that I must have been inspired by someone to start,” I replied, smiling wryly to myself.

  “What happened anyway?” I ventured carefully, half-concealed by a fog of numbing smoke.

  “It's not that interesting really.”

  “Go on,” I insisted. “I’m easily impressed.”

  “No, you’re sharp, Pete—you aren’t a dumb little kid anymore.”

  “I’m still the same idiot you always knew. Nothing ever changes,” I said flatly.

  “It's cancer, Pete. Stage three. Doctor said it’s terminal.”

  “How long have you known?” I asked.

  “Since my birthday.”

  “Since your birthday and you didn’t even bother to fucking tell me?”

  “I’m sorry, I just didn’t think the time was right. Listen, Pete, I know my time is up; there’s no point in dancing around that, but you still can change. Pete, what’s wrong?”

  “Getting older, bored, and caring less,” I replied and took another deep puff.

  “I’ve got the time to listen. Don’t I?” he said.

  Silence.

  He craned his head towards the ceiling.

  “You want to know what’s wrong? I mean, you really want to know? All right then. Seeing my father lying here on his death bed and I can’t shed a goddamn tear for the life of me. That’s what is wrong.”

  My father locked eyes with me. The dark recesses around his eyes were like a deep chasm, a black hole sucking all life towards its bottomless void.

  “I wouldn’t have expected anyone to shed a tear for me, Pete. Not after what I put you through . . .”

  I tilted my head back and felt the uncontrollable urge to laugh.

  “What the hell is so damn funny?” He thinned the tears dwelling in his eyes with a stare.

  “Nothing.”

  “Pete, what is it?”

  “You know what, I've wanted to say this my whole life, but the moment never felt right. Fuck you.”

  “Pete—”

  “No. Just because you're dying, doesn't give you a free pass or make you redeem yourself or anything like that, okay? God, you poison and bleed the life out of everyone you love and push them away. Mom didn't die because of illness, she slowly overdosed herself on meds that you'd forced upon her; all the while you stood there, claiming it was her fault that she was unhappy! All you ever care about is yourself and look where it got you.”

  A long silence cast over the room.

  “I guess this is how you'll remember me, isn't it?”

  “Yeah,” I said, rising back to my feet. “I suppose it is.”

  “Pete, please . . . can we not just have these few moments in peace?”

  I stared deep into his dying features and shook my head.

  “I don't think I can do that,” I replied.

  The tears swelled in his eyes again.

  “Your grandfather used to make me so angry that I couldn’t sleep at night.”

  “Come on,” I said. “Give it a rest.”

  “I just didn’t understand it at the time. It’s that anger, Pete, that’s what drives us. It’s the Clayton curse and blessing. It drove me and I stupidly thought it would drive you. Don’t let that rage give way, son. Keep on hating.”

  He reached his hand out to touch me. I brushed it away.

  His sad green eyes were downcast. There was no scotch to drown his sorrows this time. No cigar to puff on, or lengthy business trip to run away on. Finally, he had to sit there in silence and take in the life he had tried to escape from—the life he had tried to numb in any way that he could.

  “Thank you for coming to see me, Pete.”

  I stepped into the hall and took one last look back. My father was sheltered behind the half-closed door.

  “Good-bye, son. I’ll always love you.”

  I turned away without a word and shut the door behind me. That was the last time I saw my father and last time I could imagine big bird without shedding a tear.

  * * *

  Jason and I drove for hours that night. I had the window rolled fully down as the cold, night’s breeze swept across my face. He moaned about the cold, but I didn't care. I needed to feel numb for a while.

  “Sometimes you're the only one that gets me, Jason. And that thought scares the life out of me.”

  “Gee, thanks,” he replied with a sardonic smile. He was only half-paying attention anyway. He was too busy fidgeting with the zipper on his jacket, trying to untangle it from a fold of fabric.

  “I mean it. To the others, this is just a stress relief, but to us . . . this is life. This is our drug. It is what we are, no matter how hard we try to fight it.”

  “Oh yeah?” he asked, tryi
ng to mask the amusement in his voice. He finally ripped the fabric free and zipped his jacket all the way up to his neck. “And what is that exactly?”

  “Monsters.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The man never saw me coming. I was on top of him before he could drain the end of his bottle into his swollen gut. I drove my car straight into him. I watched him sail up onto the windscreen before spilling across the road in a crumpled-up ball of twisted limbs. I ran out of the car, leaving the door swinging open and engine still running. Before Jason could even undo his seatbelt, I was kicking the poor guy in the ribs, cursing and spitting down upon him like a rabid animal.

  It could have been minutes, seconds even. All conscious thought had fled.

  Time came to a standstill. The past, present, and future of my life had all condensed down into this single rage-filled moment.

  Just keep hitting until all the anger leaves, my past self advised me. Check for signs of life. He still good? Great. No need to stop. Only the meaty metronome of my boots upon his flesh was keeping track of the passing of time.

  He thrashed around on his back like an overturned turtle—whether trying to defend himself or reach for his smashed whiskey bottle, I could not say. We all had our preferred methods with each Playdate: our own method of taking a hit from the drug that flowed dark and sludgy through our veins.

  Sometimes we intended on sending a message, other times we simply used people as human stress-balls.

  Usually, we just needed to vent, to express our anger. This was me simply expressing my thirty-five-year-old anger as I beat an unaware man half to death purely for half-resembling my dying father. This was me expressing my anger, denial, depression, sorrow, and acceptance, all into one fleshy stress-ball: one two hundred pounds, crusty, silver-haired, life-sized stress-ball that was crying and pissing himself uncontrollably. My seven stages of acceptance transformed into seven minutes of rage-filled beating.

  Jason felt no need to stop me even if he could. All I was doing was communicating in the only way I truly knew how. Writing those final words I could never say to my father onto the meaty canvas of this victim.