He shoves a baseball bat in my hand and waves his arms out wide. “Have at it.”
When he leaves the room, I start to laugh. What the fuck is happening? Is this really my life right now?
“What the fuck are you waiting for?” he asks over a loud speaker in the room.
“Better question is what are you waiting for?” I ask, pushing the bat against a little porcelain figurine sitting on top of an old television set.
“I’m waiting to see you rage.”
I take a deep breath. He’s egging me on, trying to draw me into their chaotic world. I’m above that.
The bat accidentally bumps the figurine a little too hard though, and it begins to topple over. I shoot forward trying to catch it before it hits the ground, but I’m too late. It shatters into a hundred little pieces on the floor.
Just like the plate my mom threw at her drug dealer when he came to the house one day while she was gone, and I was home alone. Or the vase she threw in the middle of the bridal shop when I told her I saw her fiancé slipping into my brother’s room the night before.
It was always something … drugs, money, sex. Broken things … lots of broken things.
Constant chaos.
My brother and I were caught in a cyclone of her making. I’m not going to get sucked into it again.
I bend over to pick up the pieces I broke when I’m suddenly jerked from the floor. Rage wraps his arms around me from behind.
“No!” he barks in my ear. He wraps his hands over mine as we hold the bat together. Then he rears our arms back and hits the center of a television.
I begin to scream at him. “I don’t want to do this!”
Rage doesn’t say anything; he just forces me to smash the next closest object.
Eventually, I yank away from him, swinging the bat on my own, knocking everything off of a nearby shelf.
“Why are you always pulling me into your fucking chaos? I hate you! I hate this! It’s always something. Fuck yourboyfriends! Fuck your problems!” I scream while beating the shit out of anything in my path.
I continue to rage at the room, not even noticing that Rage himself has left.
I’m not sure what confessions I make while losing myself to my anger, but I guess it doesn’t matter. What do I have to hide?
“Mr. Johnson … you were the only good thing in my life.” I swing the bat so hard, I fall over, landing face first on the ground, right onto all of the broken rubble. “I’m sorry,” I sob, unable to get back up.
A few minutes later, I sense I’m not alone.
I usually prefer to be by myself when I cry. It’s easier that way. I don’t have to worry about anyone else’s emotions but my own. It’s simpler. Less messy.
I roll over onto my back, staring at the duct work that runs along the ceiling. He doesn’t say anything. He just sits quietly, watching me. For someone whose name is Rage, I sure haven’t seen a lot of it from him. I’ve done more raging than he has.
Slowly, I push myself up, feeling heavy and light at the same time. I know that doesn’t make any sense.
He leans forward, handing me a bottle of water. I bite back tears, struggling to get the gloves off.
He scoots closer and begins to help me remove my protective gear. His dark gaze bounces over my face, but not in the same way as before.
“I’m sorry I came here to try to trick you into giving me your secrets,” I say quietly, looking away from him.
A soft chuckle breaks free from his lips, sending a minty puff of air over the side of my face. “Do I look that easy?”
“No. I realized the futility of my mission the minute I saw you, but I’m still sorry.”
He makes a little grunting sound before pulling me to my feet. He unzips the coveralls and tugs them down over my hips. “Put your hand on my shoulder to steady yourself.”