Rage

• Louise Jones, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2017

The kitchen was a mess. Droplets of Pepsi Max clung to the walls, splattered in an orderly disarray. But I knew that he would rather the droplets were my blood instead.

Rage boiled within me. I wiped the remnants of the Pepsi that hugged my face with the back of my hand. The can lay crushed on the floor. I exhaled angrily, the air hissing as it left my lips. Mum came in, right on cue and overwhelmed by the chaos. She stood like a statue. The spectacle replayed over and over in my head as I hurled the can into the recycling bin.

“Is everything okay here?” Mum finally asked, at the time I had thought it was a ridiculous question. If you had taken one glance at the kitchen, at me or him or heard the children, you’d know that everything was not okay. Now I realise, that there wasn’t much you could really say in that situation.

“If I had a shotgun, I’d blow her brains out!” He seemed to answer her question adequately enough with his aggressive response before he stormed off to sulk. Mum, looking increasingly anxious, hurried out to check on my younger siblings and try to piece together what happened. They would receive comfort, I would not.

Frustration, fury and longing blurred my vision and rolled down my cheeks. Usually, I enjoyed making Spaghetti Bolognese. But it appeared that he had the ability to ruin it. I endeavoured to focus on the task at hand. After all, that was what caused his outburst. Yet, the rapidly drying beads of Pepsi taunted me and fuelled my loathing and wrath. He made a mess of such a beautiful kitchen, he didn’t apologise or attempt to clean it after either. Now I would have to clean up his destruction.

If I had done this, mum would not let me go off and sulk and watch television. But he was special. He was her husband. He had a mental illness. Which meant I had to be the adult here. I had to shut my mouth, keep my head down and let him feel powerful. Like a two-year-old throwing a tantrum for attention, he did it to feel better about himself. His need to have control, to have authority. I couldn’t stand it. I just wanted to show him that I wasn’t afraid, that he didn’t have power over me and that I despised him.

“Are you alright? Did he hit you?” Mum reappeared, now better understanding the extent of his rampage. The nature of her question still bothers me now. Had he hurt my mother in my absence? I strained to maintain my composure, not wanting to trouble my mother.

“I’m fine, although I think he meant to throw the can at me, not the floor.” I could scarcely get the words out. He wanted me to be silent, not to yell back.
Inevitability hung frozen in the air, along with the silence.