Author's Note: Warning you all now, this is one hell of a depressing ride I've sketched out. This isn't all written, so nothing's concrete- but there's a Word document that outlines this story, and I hope to follow it. This idea just came to me, and begged to be written. I'm a pysch major, so I may get technical- I love myself some good Sweets dialogue. This isn't beta-ed, so I apologize for any grammatical or spelling errors. This is my first fanfic, so please wish me luck! Reviews would be so welcome. Happy reading!
Anger by Marvin Gaye
Up and down my back, my spine, in my brain
It injures me, babe...
Anger, can make you old, yes it can
I said anger, can make you sick, children... oh Jesus
Anger destroys your soul
Rage, there's no room for rage in there
There's no room for rage in here
line up some place to go to be mad
It's a sin to treat your body bad
When anger really gets the best of us
We've really lost our heads
We often say a lot of things, oh darlin'
Wish we'd never said
Oh, reason is beyond control
Prologue
He sat in the office, and observed.
Dark. It was dark outside.
Dark meant getting home, and home meant family. And to him, family meant Arielle. Arielle meant sex.
He wanted sex. Craved it, even.
This man, he knew what he wanted. He was a logical man. A man who knew that, to get what you want, you had to carefully measure out your steps. You had to be perfectly rational. You had to be in control.
He was in control.
And now, he wanted, craved, needed to get home. It would all be so easy, he thought, if I could just hang up early. But he could not hang up. Oh, no. His boss had made it all quite clear- hang up, and you lose the job. Lose your temper, and you're out of work. It's okay, the man decided, I'll get this last call and I'll be gone. He picked up the phone, answering.
"BetState Insurance, how may I help you?" The caller criticized the company's main insurance form, stating it didn't allow for her eleven children. The man knew the form was anything but erroneous. He had devised it himself. He had an MBA. He was a Domestic Communications Administrator at one of the largest insurance companies in the world.
He was in control.
"Ma'am, if you look in the top left hand corner of the Children and Foster Children box, it says, in smaller print, that any customer with over six children must fill out a separate form. We can mail you a new form, or you can print it our off of our website." The man sighed, as the lady rattled off her name and ID so he could put it into the system and mail the form out.
"Thank you so much for your help. It must have been a real idiot who created the form I got. I mean, only a person with 20/20 vision and a magnifying glass would be able to read that!" She giggled, and he felt it then. That little stirring of ire in the pit of his stomach and the thump of his heart rate accelerate, those sure signs that the man would get angry. And when this man got angry, it wasn't just anger. It was fury. It was vehemence. Wrath. Rage. He trembled with the force of holding it back. He had spent his whole life holding it back.
He was in control.
He politely agreed and hung up, falling back into his chair, gasping and clenching his fists. Why? Why do I hold it back? His palm drifted across his pallid forehead nails scraping the clammy skin. Why? The man had an epiphany then. He didn't need to hold it back. There are ways, he thought, ways to be in control and still let out all the anger. The thought, sick as it was, even undeveloped and crude, buzzed in his convoluted mind, exciting him as he made his way home in his worn cruiser. His subconscious grinned in ecstasy, but outwardly, he appeared the same as always. It was sublime.
He was in control.
The man pulled into the driveway, and, seeing Arielle's car in the garage, felt it stir within him again. Except for, this time, the man encouraged it. It was a battle of mind and body, the man taunting himself, riling himself up. But he knew what he was doing, what he was going to do. He knew everything.
He was in control.
The door was open; it flew open. He had thrown it open. Arielle's face was smiling. The smile slowly waned. He had done that. Her eyes were concerned. Then worried. Then back to concerned, with a brief flicker of fear present. Fear. He relished it. His power.
He was in control.
He stalked up the stairs yelling accusations. It was still there, in his gut, swirling, churning fury. He flung the bedroom door open, strode over to the night table and pulled out his AR-24 that he had for emergencies. His lips twitched in anticipation. He could hear her rounding the stairs now, and he was just so angry. He would be rid of this constant vehemence. He would end it.
"Honey? Are you okay?"
She tumbled into the room, Arielle. He whipped the gun around, pointing it at her. Couldn't be too hard, could it? No. No, just pull the trigger.
He could feel it in the air around him. He could taste her fear. Smell the excitement. Feel the superiority emanating from him. He contracted his finger. The gunshot rang out. He smiled.
He was in control.
o-o-o