Rage
She was drinking at the bar. But then she was always drinking at the bar. Because if she didn't get drunk, she didn't sleep at night. And even if she was drunk, her sleep was fitful and easily disturbed. If she awoke and it was dark, she panicked. So she kept a light on while she slept. No matter how drunk she got – and some nights, most nights, she got maggoty drunk – she never went to sleep without first switching a light on somewhere in the squalid flat that was her doss house. Every morning she woke up seedy. But that was better than waking up scared. Better than waking up knowing that it had happened again.
It couldn't happen again now, of course. He was too far away, it was too long ago. But that didn't matter. The fear was as strong and assailing as the smell of alcohol had been on his breath, night after night. Its presence was relentless, attacking. As he had been. All those years ago, all those nights ago. All that fear and pain, still as close as the glass by her hand. She lifted the glass and emptied its contents in her gullet in one angry gulp. Because she was furious.
Not with her father any more. Not for a long, long time had she been angry with him. That was done with. He wasn't even part of her fear any more. It was nameless and shapeless, that fear that made her drink for drunkenness every night.
No, tonight she was furious with a much younger man. Bitterly, savagely angry with his stubborn refusal to see the facts. Why couldn’t he just accept that she didn't want his support? His unending, grating, infuriating niceness. His wide-eyed assurances that whatever, he would love and care for her. He was so innocent and pathetically adolescent that she wanted to puke. The fool! Didn't he get it? Couldn't his blind, lovelorn eyes see the truth? That she wasn't worth loving, and that she didn't want some puppy-dog loyal type like him around to constantly remind her of the fact?
He bought her another drink. His face was twisted with the pain of not understanding, and she sneered. Christ! He was so predictable, so revoltingly earnest. At least his pain gave her a kind of momentary satisfaction.
“Yeah,” she wanted to say, “feel that pain. Let it eat you. And when it's eaten you inside out and scarred your insides with the acid of hate, then you'll know what I feel. And you won't love me any more because you just won't care. There’ll be nothing there any more, and we'll be even. No, not even. Just the same. Or maybe similar. Then maybe you'll be alright to sit here beside me and get drunk every night.”
She wanted him gone. She hated him for being fool enough to care for her, for allowing her to hate him so easily, for just accepting it. If she was him, she would have got up and spit on herself by now, and walked away without looking back. If only he'd do that! Furnish the proof that she was worthless, hopeless. Beyond caring about. Because the longer he sat there with his stupidly pained look of devotion, the more doubt crept into her mind that maybe she wasn't useless and unlovable. And he'd been doing this for months now. The cunt.
If he didn't give up soon, she'd have to find another bar, and she didn't want to do that. It was good, this bar – lonely and dark with customers who didn't care, they just wanted to get drunk. An easy place in which to fester and hate. Fuck him, he'd have to go.
“You wanna fuck me, don'cha?” she sprung the question on him like a trap laced with deadly poison. He was startled, but looked steadily at her. “You dickless wonder! You think you're so fucking strong, wearing all the shit I put on you. Don't you know the more you wear, the more I'll lay on you? Don't you know that I wouldn't fuck you if you were the last stiff dick on earth? You fucking pissant. Buy me a drink and fuck off!” Her eyes were boring into him, seething with hate.
It wasn't the first time she'd said something like that, but for him, it was the last time. He knew at last that she'd never believe in his love. His will snapped. His devotion crumbled. Rage spread across his face like a scar. He got up off his bar stool and threw his glass at the wall with all of his strength, shattering it in a million shards with his hope. All of his love gone in a flash of violence and disgust.
“Fuck you,” he said quietly, and strode out, unable to cope with the tide of emotions welling within him.
“Useless cunt,” she said to herself as she turned to face the bar with a grim smile on her face. And inside of her the rage grew because she'd proved to herself again that no man could love her.
It couldn't happen again now, of course. He was too far away, it was too long ago. But that didn't matter. The fear was as strong and assailing as the smell of alcohol had been on his breath, night after night. Its presence was relentless, attacking. As he had been. All those years ago, all those nights ago. All that fear and pain, still as close as the glass by her hand. She lifted the glass and emptied its contents in her gullet in one angry gulp. Because she was furious.
Not with her father any more. Not for a long, long time had she been angry with him. That was done with. He wasn't even part of her fear any more. It was nameless and shapeless, that fear that made her drink for drunkenness every night.
No, tonight she was furious with a much younger man. Bitterly, savagely angry with his stubborn refusal to see the facts. Why couldn’t he just accept that she didn't want his support? His unending, grating, infuriating niceness. His wide-eyed assurances that whatever, he would love and care for her. He was so innocent and pathetically adolescent that she wanted to puke. The fool! Didn't he get it? Couldn't his blind, lovelorn eyes see the truth? That she wasn't worth loving, and that she didn't want some puppy-dog loyal type like him around to constantly remind her of the fact?
He bought her another drink. His face was twisted with the pain of not understanding, and she sneered. Christ! He was so predictable, so revoltingly earnest. At least his pain gave her a kind of momentary satisfaction.
“Yeah,” she wanted to say, “feel that pain. Let it eat you. And when it's eaten you inside out and scarred your insides with the acid of hate, then you'll know what I feel. And you won't love me any more because you just won't care. There’ll be nothing there any more, and we'll be even. No, not even. Just the same. Or maybe similar. Then maybe you'll be alright to sit here beside me and get drunk every night.”
She wanted him gone. She hated him for being fool enough to care for her, for allowing her to hate him so easily, for just accepting it. If she was him, she would have got up and spit on herself by now, and walked away without looking back. If only he'd do that! Furnish the proof that she was worthless, hopeless. Beyond caring about. Because the longer he sat there with his stupidly pained look of devotion, the more doubt crept into her mind that maybe she wasn't useless and unlovable. And he'd been doing this for months now. The cunt.
If he didn't give up soon, she'd have to find another bar, and she didn't want to do that. It was good, this bar – lonely and dark with customers who didn't care, they just wanted to get drunk. An easy place in which to fester and hate. Fuck him, he'd have to go.
“You wanna fuck me, don'cha?” she sprung the question on him like a trap laced with deadly poison. He was startled, but looked steadily at her. “You dickless wonder! You think you're so fucking strong, wearing all the shit I put on you. Don't you know the more you wear, the more I'll lay on you? Don't you know that I wouldn't fuck you if you were the last stiff dick on earth? You fucking pissant. Buy me a drink and fuck off!” Her eyes were boring into him, seething with hate.
It wasn't the first time she'd said something like that, but for him, it was the last time. He knew at last that she'd never believe in his love. His will snapped. His devotion crumbled. Rage spread across his face like a scar. He got up off his bar stool and threw his glass at the wall with all of his strength, shattering it in a million shards with his hope. All of his love gone in a flash of violence and disgust.
“Fuck you,” he said quietly, and strode out, unable to cope with the tide of emotions welling within him.
“Useless cunt,” she said to herself as she turned to face the bar with a grim smile on her face. And inside of her the rage grew because she'd proved to herself again that no man could love her.