It feels like those little bubbles which appear on the sides of the container when the water is just about to boil are crawling inside her skin. Point by point, threatening to engulf her. The end impact is an explosion, not leading to the calm that comes after but burns that refuse to cool down.
Anger was her constant companion. She could sense it, standing behind the door- watching. Waiting. There was also something very lively about it as if it made her existence worthwhile. The lack of reaction to the environment around herself was a self- inflicted masochism she occasionally indulged in. The blood rushing in her ears is a permanent boring hum. It needs to be replaced by the pounding of the heart once in a while.
The rage is like an addiction. If she does not let it out, it eats her up. She cannot stop feeling it. It wrecks her world but never leaves her. It carries on, like her shadow. Over the years, it has become her identity.
