MicroHorror

Rage is a funny thing. It’s always there, bubbling below the surface of that face we wear when we walk out of the house every morning. It’s there when we’re sitting in uncomfortable chairs listening to people talk about things we couldn’t care less about. It’s there on the commute home, when we’re gripping the wheel and wondering if the airbag is working as some thirty-something cubicle drone pushes his SUV to 70 miles per hour on the highway when we signal to merge into his lane because ours ends in twenty feet. Rage is there when we flip on the television to watch a mindless sitcom with a leggy blonde and the husband she clearly married for his sense of humor rather than his good looks or income, wondering why those people look so damned happy in their quiet, dull little New Jersey suburb.

Rage is there when we tuck the sheets under the mattress and pull the duvet right up to the pillows, knowing we won’t sleep in that bed tonight. It’s there when we pull an old black hooded sweatshirt out of the back of the closet and yank it over our head, stuffing our hands into the pockets and finding a nickel and a stale stick of gum. It’s there when we shove the keys into our pocket and pull the front door shut behind us.

It’s there when we walk down the street we grew up on and keep our head down because we’re afraid some sweet neighbor with shiny teeth will smile at us and ask us about our life. It’s there when we hear the little Jack Russell yipping from the old lady’s window on the corner, tiny tail flying back and forth so fast it’s nothing more than a blur behind the animal. It’s there when we turn that corner and head toward the only busy street in this sleepy, useless little town.

It’s there when we duck behind the Italian Imports store and turn down the alley, heading for the river. It’s there when we take our hands out of our pockets so we can throw our arms out like a tightrope walker when we slip and skid down the muddy incline by the bridge. It’s there when our white sneakers slap against the mud and the ground tries to suck them back in with every step.

Rage is there when we make it under the bridge and almost trip on the steel-toed work-boot on the ground and bite our lip to stop the shouted expletive.

Rage is there when our eyes register the blood-matted hair and vacant expression frozen to the waxy skin.

Rage is there when we hear the squelching of footsteps in the mud behind us.

Rage is a funny thing, because it’s there bubbling below the surface even as our blood is bubbling in a hot stream down the front of our black sweatshirt when we try to gurgle a scream.