Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Berserk

What do I do with this? This deep, overwhelming desire to go berserk?
Do I give in? Do I allow the chaos to sweep me along?
A guilty confession; head lowered and voice a whisper:
I want to.
So badly.
It calls to me. Like a seduction, an addiction. "Unleash me"
My rage is chaos. My rage is violence.
My rage is self-pity.
My rage is hurt and pain and misunderstanding
My rage is my shield, my shell, my protection . . .
My home . . .

When I'm enraged, when I feel that lust to berserk
When my eyes begin to roll back just a little
When my nostrils flare and my jaw juts into an underbite
When my chest swells, my shoulders broaden, and my head lowers
Look out. I'm mad.
You may get nothing more than darkly spoken, over-controlled words
You may get a torrent of cathartic, angry speech, fast and broken
You may get simple, glaring silence.
But, when you've gone away, I'll probably kick or punch some inanimate object
Maybe even let out of howl of hate.
It sounds like a thunderous roar in my mind, but a short, growling scream in my ears.

"Let not the sun set on your wrath"
It's well after sunset. What now?
The things that have made me so upset are still there.
I'm still hurting, and angry. What now?
What do I do with this? This deep, overwhelming desire to go berserk?

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