Rage

Rushing into the room, he grasped the door and felt a surge of energy, wanted to hurl the door behind him (slam!) but he knew that would draw a reaction and he didn't want any attention, wanted neither correction (for God's sake control yourself) nor comfort, whether sincere (would a hug help Daddy?) or politely placating (well at least it's Friday). And, while releasing that energy surge with a mighty goddam slam might have feel mighty goddam good just about then, he knew the relief would be short-lived, and would soon be followed by embarassment for his impotent outburst. He knew anyway that he didn't need to release that energy, because he knew it would soon dissipate -- but before it went away, he wanted to feel the anger that fueled his rage, not to enjoy it, but to acknowledge that it was there and should be there, he wanted to say that yes he was angry and yes he had a right to be angry. Just for a moment, he wanted to hold onto that anger, not have it dismissed with a platitude or banished by an assault on furniture. So instead of slamming the door, he closed it slowly, let the lock catch -- then turned into the room and, bending forward, silently screamed, mouth gaping, lips curled back, canines portruding.