Rage is not hot. Rage isn’t a fire inside me that I’m inclined to keep ignited because it keeps me warm. Rage isn’t something that is waiting for the snap. Rage isn’t blacking out and doing the unimaginable.
Rage is cold. Ice cold. Freezing.
Rage is a whiteout. Rage is standing in wicked winds. Rage is red knuckles that form fists. Rage is letting the wind build the ice up. Rage is unmoving. Rage is unwavering. Rage is intentional.
Rage is staring at the tool to cause harm, and using it with precision. Rage is controlled. Rage is knowing that the skin will strip off of you when you use it. The tool is waiting there in the ice and the snow.
Rage is staring at it. Rage is staring at it. Rage is staring at it.
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Rage is waiting for you to make a mistake. Rage is hoping you make a mistake. Rage is quick when you make a mistake.
Rage takes the tool with the bare hand, with the fist that can’t let go.
In the cold.
Rage is cold when it uses the tool, in the fist that can’t let go, to bring you pain that you deserve.
You deserve this.
Rage is standing alone, in the whiteout, holding the tool in the fist that can’t let go. Rage knows that the skin will strip away if it tries to let go. Rage is becoming the leather of the handle of the tool held in the fist that can’t let go.
Rage knows what it’s doing. Rage is not uncontrollable. Rage is controlled.
Rage is cold.
