for badcompany_muse: 039. Rage
He finds himself more angry and temperamental than he remembers. Fury of a Time Lord and that business was one thing. Irrational human emotions were another. Because His fury was cold and logical. But rage and temper, that was something else entirely. Hot and chaotic. Thoughts become blurred and vision becomes red and it burns from the inside.
It really does burn. It’s odd the way it burns. In his stomach and his chest and his head and sometimes even in his mouth. He can taste the rage. It’s almost coppery. And thick. And it makes him feel like he’ll choke on his own breath. Spitting mad. Maybe that’s where the expression came from. Because his mouth always feel too full and heavy and sometimes he is afraid he might literally choke on the anger. Which is stupid and infuriating and only adds to the rage.
He punched a hole in the wall. It really wasn’t important why. There was a reason, just like there’s always a reason. Not an entirely good reason, but a reason nonetheless. He scared himself. The rage seemed to go away for a moment. Only a moment though, because there was a hole in the wall that wasn’t there before. Someone would have to fix that. Someone needed to fix loads of things. The hole in the wall, and the building that was destroyed by those aliens he never even heard of, and his mind which was working on the rules of another universe that couldn‘t even begin to know what those aliens were. He saw red and tasted heat and could feel the room was much too small. The walls seemed to be moving in on him. So he kicked and he threw and he ripped and he punched and he tore it all apart. Until the hole in the wall seemed so small, and he was surrounded by the tipped over furniture and the shattered glass and mirrors littering the room and that one stupid piece of wall paper peeling from the wall, begging to be ripped off. Someone would need to clean this up as well.
When there’s nothing left to rage against, he takes a shower. He’s learned he likes hot showers. It’s almost therapeutic. Washing away all the rage. Cleansing. Some sick twisted form of baptism. He’ll stand in the shower, hot water burning and scolding. Until the hot water runs out. Until it’s cold and icy and feels more familiar. Until the heat disappears. Until his stomach and his chest and his head and everything else feels numb and frozen and far away. His teeth chatter and he flexes his fingers and his hands shake slightly and the rage disappears. His skin is pale and when he steps out of the shower, if the light hits it right it seems almost bluish. He likes blue and cold much more than red and flushed.
It was good to be cold. It was good to get dressed. Bundle up. Hide beneath the layers that are necessary when you’re cold. He could walk past that piece of wallpaper and move around the shattered fragments of mirror and glass, and step over the furniture. He could ignore the hole in the wall. He could open the door and walk away and leave the mess for someone else to clean up.
He could pretend the only kind of anger he felt was cold fury. He could pretend he was still the Same.
Until tomorrow or the next day or the day after that. Until the heat returned and he was reminded that everything here was stupid and illogical and chaotic.
Anger meant temper and rage and heat.
Temper and rage and heat meant he really wasn’t Him at all.
It really does burn. It’s odd the way it burns. In his stomach and his chest and his head and sometimes even in his mouth. He can taste the rage. It’s almost coppery. And thick. And it makes him feel like he’ll choke on his own breath. Spitting mad. Maybe that’s where the expression came from. Because his mouth always feel too full and heavy and sometimes he is afraid he might literally choke on the anger. Which is stupid and infuriating and only adds to the rage.
He punched a hole in the wall. It really wasn’t important why. There was a reason, just like there’s always a reason. Not an entirely good reason, but a reason nonetheless. He scared himself. The rage seemed to go away for a moment. Only a moment though, because there was a hole in the wall that wasn’t there before. Someone would have to fix that. Someone needed to fix loads of things. The hole in the wall, and the building that was destroyed by those aliens he never even heard of, and his mind which was working on the rules of another universe that couldn‘t even begin to know what those aliens were. He saw red and tasted heat and could feel the room was much too small. The walls seemed to be moving in on him. So he kicked and he threw and he ripped and he punched and he tore it all apart. Until the hole in the wall seemed so small, and he was surrounded by the tipped over furniture and the shattered glass and mirrors littering the room and that one stupid piece of wall paper peeling from the wall, begging to be ripped off. Someone would need to clean this up as well.
When there’s nothing left to rage against, he takes a shower. He’s learned he likes hot showers. It’s almost therapeutic. Washing away all the rage. Cleansing. Some sick twisted form of baptism. He’ll stand in the shower, hot water burning and scolding. Until the hot water runs out. Until it’s cold and icy and feels more familiar. Until the heat disappears. Until his stomach and his chest and his head and everything else feels numb and frozen and far away. His teeth chatter and he flexes his fingers and his hands shake slightly and the rage disappears. His skin is pale and when he steps out of the shower, if the light hits it right it seems almost bluish. He likes blue and cold much more than red and flushed.
It was good to be cold. It was good to get dressed. Bundle up. Hide beneath the layers that are necessary when you’re cold. He could walk past that piece of wallpaper and move around the shattered fragments of mirror and glass, and step over the furniture. He could ignore the hole in the wall. He could open the door and walk away and leave the mess for someone else to clean up.
He could pretend the only kind of anger he felt was cold fury. He could pretend he was still the Same.
Until tomorrow or the next day or the day after that. Until the heat returned and he was reminded that everything here was stupid and illogical and chaotic.
Anger meant temper and rage and heat.
Temper and rage and heat meant he really wasn’t Him at all.