Resting rage face
|Keeping his distance when he felt off was the only way to keep them safe. He trusted his wife's family this time, hours before being another guest trying to escape the gates of hell parting open. Hijinks and a prank gone awry was the last thing on his mind, to forget of the visit of a piece of metal that tried to pry him open from the inside. His running thoughts, speeding across access points, buried the encounter. Quick and fast in a hurry as if it never occurred. He was compartmentalizing again. Sorting through the ruckus of one event to the next. Putting one away while present knots of whispering coaxed the better part of his complex conscience, where it remained dormant for most to never seen, including that of his better half. A personal meeting between the intelligence of a ring and his neurotic side, played the gentle game. The long con wasn’t going to run a long play because there was always the cup of rage just waiting to runneth over. |
He swept up in rigidness of fighting it back slowly and surely. Haunting of the greeting that wasted little time of wanting to show him his true potential. YOU HAVE GREAT RAGE IN YOUR HEART...YOU BELONG TO THE RED LANTERN CORPS. If it were true, why was he standing at the crack of dawn, the coming of morning, unaffected? Unmoved? Not bent by the new will of anger but there was deceit to this path. The path that would wrangle up the Deathstroke by any means, even including having to soften up to the very side of him that wanted to prey upon sensibilities he left at the bottom of his shoe. Mental steps reached furthest away from the edges of duality. The escaping trick that psyched out one part of him in order to keep both in line. They were to be in sync. As one. Fixated on not being the threat to home.
The very base of a foundation that a better life was meant to be but there was always a but. Always an opportunity to show its face and one resting to lexpand on the cultivation of the worst bomb awaiting to finally go off. That detonation relied on a meticulous countdown. Using his mode of operations against him and when the time strikes, it would do so in an orchestrated delight that saw the horrific beauty in seizing the very part of him where being livid was welcomed. The arms of destruction marked in a path of red were outstretched, widening. Causing a net to be cast. A trap set. The snare calling out with promises of infinite power. The kind you don’t get often and it arrived, fitting snuggly against his finger. Just above the band associated with marriage. His unholy matrimony final and finite to the corps infested by ire. Unexplainable. Infinite. Sensual. Stroking the dissatisfied member of a hidden endowment, teasing the lesser of self to draw out its true fate.
He kept the whispering at its minimum. Ignoring the hum of praise. Dialing down its song of sorts but the noise rose in moments picked at by his shortcomings. The rancid transgressions he never could forgive himself for. Feeling helpless to his wife's current state of blue. Rounding out the dire possibility of losing his control again. His own anxiety nearly fighting him day in and day out to overthrow the lull he fought to manage while baby Wilson depended on him. Oh did that kid depend on him, and this soundly kept him focused with laser sharp precision. Coupled with wanting to get through the morning in denial. Pretending he was feeling okay but not the ill settlement of a fire that danced elegantly with gentle steps in the hull of his stomach.
His walk around the premises was normal. Setting the tone of will it or won’t it grab him from behind and throw the bag over his head to face what’s aptly waiting to accept. He done so with the metal band fitting but disclosed to the naked eye. Reaching to his natural state doing the better part of the work of contending with his blood tainting gradually. His ears were warm, face flushed once again and it prompt his morning walk to be cut shortly as his required thirst for water deviated for another sustenance. He entered his home and reached the fridge to find the gallon of water to drench his throat with quickly. Inhaling to relieve himself of feeling flushed and unlike himself. Confidence withstanding the feeling wasn’t familiar but the voice was. It was distorted this time and grated against the unluckiest parts he had the most trouble to keep padded away.
It was time to snap out of it. He wasn’t getting sick. He couldn’t. He was unable to and yet he told himself it was all in his head. Speaking through a filter that was breaking down molecule by molecule, wanting to rapidly deteriorate and it will have its chance. He was nauseous then and dropped the plastic bottle on the counter, removing his shirt to exit the kitchen. The trip was going to be a long one to find the bathroom. Route in doing so was less than perfect but he managed to get there, still running through the possibilities of feeling more unwell as there was the action of fighting away the irate sickness that was more potent than his enhancements were allowed to be.