Tears of Rage

It was midnight. He stood in front of the mirror and bawled. Tears streamed his bearded and protuberant jaw. He was fuming; he had not felt this passion – this burning desire of a negative kind – in a very long time.

Saturdays had begun to make him feel uncomfortable for some time now but was there something more peculiar about this Saturday evening? Restless with what was happening to him, he punched a wall. A loud thud; may be the wall cracked. He looked at his hand. Kept looking at it for a long time. Tried to pull together the fist again. He could barely manage. Filled with rage, he punched the wall repeatedly until his knuckles bled and his vocal cords could no longer support his yelling.

That night, this heavily built man cried. He was destitute like an abandoned 2-year old in a crowded marketplace. He buried his head in the pillow and wept. Although it wasn’t the warmth he was seeking, he had come to make do in the absence of her lap.


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