Rage, noun. Defined as:
uncontrollable anger, or difficult to control.
A sudden expression of violent anger.
Something that is very popular.
At least, I never expected to five years ago. I was a king, practically, in the outer rim. I was popular enough to get with models and famous peoples inner circles in the Outer Rim, and I had my fair share of drink, debauchery, and women. And then, it all fell apart. A bad season, followed by a fight, brought my career in Null-hockey to a screeching halt. They liked fights in the ring- not in the locker room. Especially when you ruin the money maker of a person- their face. I didn't understand it at the time, what was festering inside me, was growing like a tumor. It was rage, anger that I could have suppressed so long ago.
But it's far too late, now. Far too late to go back. Blood, isn't like the other stains on your clothes or your hands. You can wish off dirt, you can take the skeleton out of your closet. But you can never wash off blood. No bleach, no tonic, nothing, can remove that stain. And I feel as though my entire body has been stained, stained with the crimson element of life from other people.
And then, there's the blackness. Where I have given my soul away, where I have willingly given part of my very being to war. I used to court war, I used to want to hold it's hand and make it dance, I wanted to dance with it and seek it's glories. Now, I see only the death. I'm sure the Reaper, in his brooding, shadowy presence, lingers near me, gleefully waiting for me to end the life of some poor bastard.
Someone always dies, whenever I'm around.
I want it to stop. The nightmares. The shakes. The sweats. The fevers, the flashbacks.
uncontrollable anger, or difficult to control.
A sudden expression of violent anger.
Something that is very popular.
You never want to wake up angry.
At least, I never expected to five years ago. I was a king, practically, in the outer rim. I was popular enough to get with models and famous peoples inner circles in the Outer Rim, and I had my fair share of drink, debauchery, and women. And then, it all fell apart. A bad season, followed by a fight, brought my career in Null-hockey to a screeching halt. They liked fights in the ring- not in the locker room. Especially when you ruin the money maker of a person- their face. I didn't understand it at the time, what was festering inside me, was growing like a tumor. It was rage, anger that I could have suppressed so long ago.
But it's far too late, now. Far too late to go back. Blood, isn't like the other stains on your clothes or your hands. You can wish off dirt, you can take the skeleton out of your closet. But you can never wash off blood. No bleach, no tonic, nothing, can remove that stain. And I feel as though my entire body has been stained, stained with the crimson element of life from other people.
And then, there's the blackness. Where I have given my soul away, where I have willingly given part of my very being to war. I used to court war, I used to want to hold it's hand and make it dance, I wanted to dance with it and seek it's glories. Now, I see only the death. I'm sure the Reaper, in his brooding, shadowy presence, lingers near me, gleefully waiting for me to end the life of some poor bastard.
Someone always dies, whenever I'm around.
I want it to stop. The nightmares. The shakes. The sweats. The fevers, the flashbacks.
