One is the Magic Number

My skin feels hot. My face is flushed, vision blurry. My mouth is dry, like someone scraped the skin off my tongue with sandpaper. I’m trembling and rocking back and forth.

I’m so damn angry.

In my head I’m walking mental circles, building it up, breaking it down, deciphering, decoding, deliberating. Except I can’t THINK straight. I’m too damn angry.

I can’t stop my hands from shaking.

I so rarely get angry that each time feels like a new sensation. I have to feel my way through it, almost blinded by the feeling. I’m wading in it now, trying not to allow the undercurrent to knock me off my feet.

Oh, who am I kidding?

If my anger was an ocean it would swallow me whole.

I feel like I’m drowning. I’m suffocating under this feeling, sinking to the bottom watching the light fade away.

I rock some more. I work myself up so badly my eyes start to sting at the onset of a fresh wave of tears. One slips down my cheek.

That’s the last tear you shed. Got that? I chastise myself.

I tighten up. I wipe my face. I put on my shades. I start my car. I pick up the phone and I dial.

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