When we started. The beginning. There were sharp bits of plate. They lay strewn all over the floor. She had been in a hurry, bustling from chair, to table, to counter, and repeated in a variety of combinations, collecting things they would need for later that night. But he hated dinner parties. He just wanted to spend time with her, but she always wanted to impress other people, at least that’s how he saw her. She claimed he never talked to her. But how could he with everyone else around all the time. Her rushing to and fro, and then smack. The doors to the china hutch weren’t usually open. They didn’t usually use those dishes, so the plate was usually safe there in the middle of the top shelf. It was a family thing, the plate, not the dinner party. Either she closed the silverware drawer too quickly or had knocked it with her hip. Either way the plate hit the floor.
From that central impact point of beneath the hutch, the pieces scattered everywhere, like the ripple effect from a drop of water. And I came like a burst of another chain reaction. Their disconnect. Her need of outward happiness. His want of quiet intimacy. Her moving around. His trying to get her attention. Then the broken plate. Like a pivot point. Current frustration into tangible breakage.
He clenched his fists and began to tremble, but kept me all inside. She apologized over and over and over again. He replied that it was fine over and over and over again. It wasn’t fine. She knew it wasn’t fine. With a flash of red and shaking heat, I was there. Black like tar, sickeningly bitter, but easily bogged down by obligation. There were moments following the broken plate where I would sit behind his teeth, on the cusp of his throat. He kept me down and inside, a constant reminder, but a constant warmth.
She ran and got the broom trying to reconcile the larger pieces, positing that superglue could solve the problem. He told her to forget it. Again, that it was fine. It wasn’t fine. He hastily grabbed the dust pan from her hand, stomping over to the trash, slamming his foot on the pedal, and pitching it in. For a moment, with time consciously suspended, he thought of snatching the pieces out of the trash. He also thought of picking up the whole metallic trash can and chucking it across the kitchen at her. Both wasted thoughts. He felt me well up inside, but he just let the weight sit, took his foot off the pedal that was keeping the lid open. It drops down with a clamor. He takes a deep breath. Drops his shoulders, turns around with furrowed brow and clenched fists.
I’m sorry I exist. I showed up the night the plate was broken. I think he knew I’d been there all along. But the broken ceramic shards strewn about the floor. Each shattered sliver poked him with the fact that I was there. I didn’t want to be. To be causing such strife, such resentment. He harbored me in the pit of his gut. For 10 years. But when I was out, okay more like unleashed, I couldn’t be stop. Every bit that I was came pouring out of him. He didn’t finish until I was completely out of him. Which was good for him, but bad for them. Bad for everyone I then came in contact with. I charged through anything and everything. My black stain leaving a mark on all the other light ones. Of course it was my nature. Not my fault, just who I am. Which frankly makes it worse. Makes me more sorry that I exist. I’m sorry I exist. But that’s the end.
[Part 1 of a story I’m writing from the point of view of anger]
^so everything in the world is comprised of the same basic stuff?
^carbon. being the most important.
^then///how come everything can be so entirely different?
^bc the little stuff. the other stuff. the stuff unique and the stuff that’s different from the same basic stuff, that stuff makes us different. we have all the basic, but the combinations of the others w.these basics///
^you’re rambling. but okay. like everyone can be a puzzle, but no puzzle the same picture.