Just Because

A slow rage kindled inside him. He knew it was pointless. However, it held the intensity of a wildfire, while merely holding the appearance of a small candle in a dark room

This was the worst kind of rage. Not that of some psychopath, but an anger with no direction. There was no focus to dispel it. It was just left to burn; the red-hot embers able to last for an indefinite period.

He stood up. He needed to do something. Go somewhere. Run. Fight. Argue.

Something to make him feel alive. To feel the blood rushing in his veins. To hear the steady thrumming of his heartbeat pounding in his head.

---

Outside, the fresh, cool air nurtured him. Cleared his head, his thoughts more sharp. Breathing in the essence of the world around him; using it to make him more complete. He was unable to tell if it was merely fueling his rage, or quelling it.

He decided to walk.

He didn’t live in the best part of town. His house had been broken into just a few days ago. He longed to find the bastard that did it. He thought perhaps that was the source of his rage. Why anyone would think he had anything valuable in the old decrepit house was beyond him. . It was funny if you thought about it. Half the windows were boarded up from previous burglaries. The paint was peeling, like some worst-case scenario dermatologist patient in desperate need of a loofa


……