“HEY BE QUIET IN THERE” The guard wakes me up as he hits his fucking cane on my door. No one can ever rest in this God damn place.

A sigh breaks through as I realize that I’m soaked in my own sweat. I’ve been screaming and tumbling in my sleep. Again. I know that because; my throat feels scratchy when I tried clearing my throat and that I found new bruises on my arms and shoulders. It could be due to the fights I go into when I black out. But, that can’t be it. I’m in isolation. The only explanation could be my sisters resonating screams the moment I decided to shut my eyes.

I don’t remember beating her. I black out when I get too pissed off, you see. Can’t remember shit. What I do recollect is blood splattered like fucking paint all over the living room walls, locks of dirty brown hair on the floor and in my sweaty bloody hands and broken bits of everything. I recall my moms fear of me and how she’d never forgive what I’d done. But what have I done damn it. I was told that my fists connected to her cheekbones and allowed them to fracture. I was also told that chunks of her hair were ripped out of her. That she left by the time I was conscious. I never saw her since.

What tears my heart open is the reason I started beating her in the first place. THAT, I can  remember. She started babbling about a guy that liked her at work, how he got her flowers that she rejected but she was smirking like she enjoyed it. It pissed me off real good. I remember throwing a chair near her and asking her what she finds so fucking amusing. I remember her staring at me with determined eyes and lips pressed into a solid line. Defying me. I blacked out after that.

I regret that more than I regret killing the guy. How fucked up is that? I’m not even apologetic about it. There’s something different about her screams. How her vocal cords created something so foul out of her mouth that found its way to haunt me for the past 10 years or so. It could’ve been more. I stopped counting. No point when you’re in solitary AND spending the rest of your life rotting in the only wretched place that will accept you.

If you’re wondering why I strangled the guy till I saw blue veins almost bursting outta his damn forehead then beating him with my metal bat till I saw the cracks of his head spread wide open then, you probably won’t like the damn answer. The mother fucker almost hit my bumper and it drove me nuts because, he did it more than once. This dick, had this chick with him and they found it real funny to always be so close to my damn car. I’ve had enough so I forcefully made him stop and dragged him out of his car. Imagine that, killing a guy on a fucking highway. Whats more messed up is that I remember every bit of it. Whats even more screwed up is that I enjoyed it. His name was Ahmed, or so I’ve heard. A 19 year old with “hopes to be a fucking musician”.

Here’s another laugh. He’s not the only one I’ve killed.


One Reply to “Wrath”

  1. […] kept beating on your hands furiously I almost collapsed. Almost died for you. Sometimes, my withered heart beat so slow it could barely […]

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