Anger is a strong feeling. Anger encompasses everyone. Sooner or later you will want to destroy something. Soon the worlds of a few select people will collide. A seemingly explainable list of events link together by the victims.


1. Slugs

To whoever finds my body first.



Recurring nightmares. I can't prevent them. They are just there. But not nightmares. They are truths that i can't control. Al lot like my hands these days. Don't get me wrong im not the kind with roman hands and Russian fingers. In fact, Im essentially a vegetable that can blink and move his hands. So all im capable of doing is writing and eating my meals through a straw. Im no better than a lump of cookie dough.


I became what i am through a terrible accident. Clichéd i know, but i guess like all things, it starts bad, and then goes downhill from there.



Back when my legs were more than just decoration – i need to stop insulting my own problems, that's what doctor Crane said –i was able to walk, and one cold October evening i decided, fuck it, i want a pizza. I went out, leaving my wife and two kids watching the next reality TV show whilst i fetched an extra large pizza with a handful of each topping.


I was not a thin man. Oh hell no. I liked my food too much to be ever called thin. But now allot of the lustre has been sucked out of eating, in a way you could say it was sucked out like a disabled man eating liquefied spaghetti bolognaise from a straw.



Anyway, i got the pizza. Extra large, handful of each topping. And on the way out, crossing the road. BAM. KABLMO. I was hit by no less than three cars. The first flipping my like a coin. Second i bounced of the bonnet. The last i went head first through the windshield. Imagine a boiled egg, you get it, and you crack it, and millions of little lines are traced on it. My skull was like that, except you wouldn’t dip your toast soldiers into my yolk, not unless you were of a cannibalistic persuasion.


Ive been called allot of things, miracle of modern science, genius, retard and bastard in these last few weeks. And with no hint of arrogance i will say, i am that. I am everything but a man who can walk.

Everything moved so fast. Yet that moment when the tonnes of steel where shredding my skin and braking my bones, that moment seemed to last forever. I was like cookie dough, being kneaded by a house wife with too much testosterone in her system for my liking.


They all stopped. People got out of their cars and house. No one did anything for a few minutes. The fact i was in pieces across the floor was miraculous. I could manage words, none of them particularly pleasant. Being a middleclass man – who got pizza down the road, well old habits never die – who wasn't used to waiting for anything, no patients i yelled. No. I fucking screamed until my bloody gurgled lips couldn’t make more noise.



"Help dying you...pieces" And like that my voice petered out with a sound not unlike gravel being fed through a tub pudding. And i never spoke again. I was carted off to hospital, the grill of a ford fiesta stamped onto my gut, shards of broken rib and spine in my lungs, someone's wing mirror tickling my prostate.


Like i said. I was called allot of things. Miracle of modern science my ass. I spent time in bed. I spent time being told i was living. No one looked hopeful. I couldn't even move my hands in those days. The only person who had the guts to see me every day in the state i was in was my daughter. Meryl was a god send in the first place.



They say you shouldn’t have favourites with your kids. And back then i wasn't of such a cynical nature and i would have liked to think i loved my kids with equality. However im aware that now. But she deserved the praise, and the love. She was the better of the two. She was more relatable than Dan, not as idiotic. And she was smart. So god damn smart. Notice though. I used the past tense. She was so smart though.


I sometimes look at Dan and think what life would be like if i had whacked off instead.



Nightmares. I had a vivid dream before the first time i moved my hands. It was horrific, and now so clear. But then i was a jumble of things. I was a man, being chased by an arm, but it was scaled and reptilian, eventually i hunted him down and gutted. The hand forced its way down my throat. Even though i just imagined it, i will never forget my jaw dislocating, feeling scratching as the back of my Adams apple was massaged and poked like it was stress toy.


Then i saw a woman, who looked like my wife, flying upwards to the sky. But instead of keeping going up, and up, and up she ended up being crushed against the sky as though it was a ceiling. And not quickly either, slowly, i watched the bones force their way from her skin. Her face caught in a horrific scream as her spine come through the top of her skull with bits of brain on the end of it.



The last was the only one, im slightly ashamed to say to this day. The last one was Meryl. She was floating in the air being electrocuted. And i was the one doing it, i had strapped her to an electric chair and was pulling that switch. She was flying around, slowly crisping up. And when it was finished she fell to the ground and shattered.


When i woke up i was trying in mid air. My hands were at their own accord almost typing. Typing was something i did all my life, i was fifty. And i was used to it. I knew keyboards well. And i needed to know what i was typing.

Each letter i envisioned in front of me. It was guess work but i worked it out slowly. It was saying. "Give me something to work with." My heart stopped. I didn’t have that in my mind. I wasn't doing this, not on a conscious level at least.


But there was more, more rapid this time too. I couldn’t work it out. But it was maddening. Like i was bottled up. I couldn’t speak for help. But then i noticed the camera. I twas watching me. The lens glassy, watching. Waiting, almost for sign of life. And like that a group of doctors, and the man who in my dreams had been split open by a reptilian forearm came with them.



"My god, he's stroking" One said.


"No, it's spasms."



"No" Meryl was with them. "He's typing." I looked at her. Sweet sixteen, life ahead of her. She really was so damn smart.


They wasted no time getting a laptop and positioning it under my hands. I was typing furiously now. The words I'll never forget because it was so damn bizarre. 'Seen through flower, chords ring true, i hear the pain but all i can do' It was poetry. I was writing poetry. And bad poetry at that.



"Its beautiful daddy, but say something."


I regained control and typed in. "How are you little one?" She hugged me, plastered me with kisses then kissed me harder. I didn’t have to worry about looking the part. I was motionless so the grim expression was my only one.

"come on9 girl you don twant your deddy" I retyped it. Those red lines of failure make anger rise up in my so i hit the key boards harder the keys making louder noises. "Come on girl you wouldn’t want your daddy to be crushed. She read it out.


"Get him one with a voice, i don’t care how much it is." She demanded. And in time they did. But in the mean time my hands were working feverishly to write more. They wrote poetry with beauty in the words. My whole family started to come see me now. Reading my poetry. Becoming more and more impressed. Demanding to know why i didn’t mention i had this talent. A talent i didn’t have. What was i supposed to say. That my hands where doing all the work? That i was having more vivid nightmare that i was slowly weaving into my poetry. 'electric woman, so tired and young, height doesn't become you' i was slowly creating the dreams in poetry.



I found recently that i had more control over myself. But sometimes fits of needing to un-bottle this feeling, emotions, i couldn’t control. And if there wasn't a keyboard my hands would repeat the entire sequence until someone saw i wanted to write it down. Meryl was a god send. She kept my nails trimmed. Kept my beard short and my hair neat. She looked after me. My wife i wish i could praise her on a similar level.


If i told you our last conversation i think you'll understand what i mean.



"Tomas." I hate being called my full name. I prefer Tom. Just Tom Gordon, not Tomas. "I cant bare to see you like this."


I typed into my voice machine. "What do you mean?" It said after a bit. It had not upward inflection even though i ended it with a question mark. "Like this?"



"Since the accident, i just, can't look at you. And i know it's horrible to say."


"It is." I typed. Anger began to boil in me. It dripped into the tips of my fingers like the drool ends up on the collar of my shirt if i lean too far to the left. "I dint." Damn it to hell i miss spelled it. She waited patiently for me to retype it. "I didn’t want this for me, or us. But ypu" – Fuck -  "But you, can't leave me." She was already turning her head from side to side as if telling me to stop.



"All you do now is type away. Talking to you isn’t the same. All you do is write poetry. And it scares me, that last one, about alligators eating guts, about you crying bloody tears, i can't take it. Its scaring me too much"


I was angry typing like a mad man, my reply ready. "Its waht i feel, i see it in my head and i cant unsee it., im seeing scary things cand im trying to tellpeople, but if i said that i think im profisizing deaths of people they would think im mad, ive seen you die, and the doctor and-"



"Stop" She wept, i had no sympathy for her. "Stop." She got up and left. If i could have moved at that time i would have ran up and decked the bitch. I was losing my mind. The dreams were worse now. I saw their faces. Terror. Shock. Fear. They want to publish my poems. I tell them not to. There mine. The real reason is, that if any one of them dies like that i didn’t want be linked. For all the changes i was going through i was still a coward.


The first death happened a week after my wife divorced me. I didn’t care. I was writing more. Not poems now. First person accounts of each dream. The one i enjoyed writing was the death of my bitch wife. That's what i called her now. Bitch. I cant help it. Rage comes too easy.



'she fell, the stars soon becoming her tomb. She would be impaled on Orion's belt and stay their longer and longer. Her blood raining down. Blonde hair turning clear and she is engulfed by a supernova. Nothing stops it." After i was done writing my hands would hurt. The palms of my hands the most. I looked down at my white keyboard. The one that interchangeably switched from my voice box to my laptop. It was covered in blood. I turned over my palms.


In the centre of each one was a mark. One long line across it with two parallel lines running through the horizontal one. Bleeding. Surging. Pulsing. It was like there was a slug under my skin, gestating until it was ready to burst out, i could almost feel it, like a used condom under my palm. Foamy blood seeping in-between the lines running down my forearms, i couldn’t do anything. Nothing but drool on my collar.



Veins in my hands began to bulge. There were like more slugs were there now. Breeding under my hands. Working their way into my capillaries. I thought they were going to infect my mind, but that ship had sailed.


The day my doctor died he came in to see me.



"Tom, you're looking well. Have you been god what happen to your hands?"


I typed gingerly, not wanting to open the wound again. "Nothing. I woke up like this. Im okay doc."

"Did someone do this?"


"No. I woke up like this." When you can't move your face, no one can tell you're lying. When your voice is expressionless it can't be read for fibs. Hell, i bet if they could read my mind they would see no sign of deception.

Im told people who show no physical signs when lying are violent sociopaths. So by that logic all us retards are morally insane.


"Well, I'll get someone to check it out. I hope you don’t mind the interns seeing what caused it. Maybe they are lacerations we missed, opened up from typing, anyway, im going to the zoo with my kids, i promised, don’t hold it against me."

"Don't worry." I said.


When he was gone, about an hour later i saw crocodile eyes over my vision. Long jaw. Teeth. Wide. Ready to destroy. I saw the doctor, Steven was his name, his two kids. His wife. His wife, who loved him. Who wouldn’t run is he was made into nothing but a wad of cookie dough with hands. THAT BITCH LEFT ME. Only Meryl see's me now. Even now, her mother gone. She smiles. She was so smart.



My hands lurched in front of me. Stretched out ahead of me like was pushing a wall, or a person. Steven. Lucky basterd. Wife didn’t leave him. Ill show him i thought to myself. Blood was pouring in foamy droplets from my hands. My chair went forward by a few meters, my hands met the wall. I saw in my head the guy falling into a lake, filled with crocodiles, or alligators', ready to savage him. Anger came too easy to me that day, and the days that followed.


I would find my hands stretching out more often. More shaped pulsating under my skin. Like i was a wad of maggot infected cookie dough. Ben and Jerry's would have a field day with me. Foamy blood seeping from my hands, it doesn't fall, it just sticks there, weightless like a light pink marring. My cuffs split as the pulsating increases. Im running out of shirts. When people ask about the blood i make a joke about my catheter. I say they need a bigger one. Some laugh uneasily.



When i heard the news i felt a weird sensation. I mixture of sickness and satisfaction. My new doctor wouldn’t be a smug some-of-bitch like him. I knew that. Because Only Doc Steven had a happy marriage. Only his wife had a reason to stick around. See how much she loves him when all that is left of him is an arm. The thing is, with me and him it's an even playing field. I can move my hands, but i drool on myself, he can't move anything, but at least he inst covered in his own drool, at least death took him – or, as i would later re iterate that, i took him.


That night no one came. It was dark. I slept in my chair now. Not wanting to be left so defenceless as to be on my bed. I felt more like a useless glob of meat when i was there. On my chair. That's when i became fully aware that my anger was getting the better of me.



"Hello Tom." I typed, or, my Anger typed, the slugs. "How's the drooling going."


"You're not real." I thought to myself.



"On the contrary you mashed potatoes lump, im far from real, im you, im Anger. I am the thing that killed Steven the doctor."


"No." I tried to say. But only thought it.



"Yes, and your wife's next. Only if you want it. And i know she's being an angry bitch. She probably had a affair. But with who?" The slugs writhe like they that had salt poured on them.


"Your all in my head. Your all in my head. Your all in my head."



"Speaking of head, how is your wife." I would have thrown the monitor across the room if i could move, if my muscles weren't just for decoration anymore. "So it crossed your mind that she's cheating on you before the divorce. We can take care of that."


"No." This time i sounded less sure. I wanted her to pay. For leaving me. Like an unfinished cake. She made the mix then just set me aside. I could get better. In my heart of heart i believed it though my head said im a retard, deal with it. She could believe it just as easily. Why has she got to be a fucking bitch and leave me?

"Because you scare her. Your poetry, she can't bear it."



"You mean your poetry."



"No, yours, they are your words." The anger. That beautiful feeling that i could topple mountains. But i think I'll start with my wife. I fell asleep that instance, and had a powerful dream of my wife plunging to her death, but upwards. Because in the crazy world of dreams, up is down and down is up.


Meryl woke me up. "Hey daddy. Are you ok."



"Why would i be" That soulless voice. I even stopped putting the question marks at the end of my sentences because it made no difference.


"Doctor Steven Baxter is dead-"





"Daddy!" She sounded shocked.



"It was a joke." I said in that unreadable voice. "Not a very good one, ive been a bit depressed." - No, ive been fucking angry is what i have been - "How's your mother."


"She's on the roof smoking." It jilted me. I could feel it in my balls, it was the right time. She would pay. And she would die. Then i could live with my little Meryl. And we could stay together. I wouldn’t have to lose her. Not through custody. I could stay at home. And write. And forget that i was even married. "I hate it when she smokes. And i hate the way she acts now. It's like you were barley married. She's acting like a teenager." She was so smart. And beautiful. She would meet a nice young man, one that i approved of, that wouldn’t take her away from me to be alone. And i would have grand children. And i would write then stories. That's was what i thought at least.



"Its ok, i love you honey." She hugged me. So hard i couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t really tell her to stop. But she did in time. Then she left. A tear in her eye. She and her mother had argued. And that was the final nail in the coffin. Hers, to be precise. She would die tonight.


I typed on my keyboard. "Go to the edge, look down on the cars, like glowing stars on the night sky. An inverted world. Taste your Marlboro for the last time, enjoy the taste, let it fill your lungs, exhale, let your pert lips make that delicious pout i once would have dropped dead for. Die." I put my hands up. Like i did with Steven. Except it was Anger doing it for me. She lurched forward. As did i. And i could feel her coming past. I turned towards my window. And if i could have said something to her at the moment her scared face past by my window. I would have told her. "I would help. But im afraid im just a poor little lump of cookie dough. See you on the flip side." I didn’t. But the notion was enough to get me to sleep.

I was slowly getting sicker it seemed. And near to the end of this story even, Meryl could see it. She started emailing me. Less people came to see me. No one wanted to read my poems. Too dark they said. Even Meryl found them difficult to deal with. I was getting long finger nails like talons. And a beard growing, unkempt hair. I was looking more like Anger. And the poems showed it. Each were more horrific. "Kill all the children. Paint new ones in blood. Destroy more towers. Make it a blessing. Kill all the children. Paint new towers. Knock down the foundations. And devour what's left." That is the last one Meryl read before asking politely to be exempt from being told to read them.


She's becoming like her mother. That's what anger kept telling me. Kept telling me that she wasn't even going to be replying to my emails soon. Soon i would be all alone; And i couldn’t have that. Anger told me she would have one more chance. Tell her what you did. See what she thinks. Tell her how you killed the doctor, and your ex-wife, tell her how you only want her in your life, and that everything else is secondary.



I did. And her reply was horror. Telling me to see my physiatrist. Telling me to never talk to her again. Telling me never to even think of her again. My baby Meryl. So smart. I hated her. She was like her mother. Anger was right. He was right about her. Right that she wants understanding. It was just a cover up. Obligation. That was all i was.


I closed my eyes. Took my scared hands. Felt the symbols bulge letting the foam through and began to type my little daughter, my little back stabbing, miss-leading daughter, who was too like her mother, out of existence. I wrote her into taking a bath. I wrote her into taking a toaster with her. I wrote her into plugging it in and dropping it in. I even wrote regret into her. I made her say. "Im sorry daddy, please forgive me." And if i was there, i would have whispered. "Okay." Because she was the only one of the three i took away worth saving. The slugs were on my keyboard now. Sliding across my. Across my hands. Legs. Face.



Steven, flaunting his wife. My Ex, flaunting her new sexuality, smoking, but my little girl, miss-lead, tainted by her mother. I would join her soon. This is the last thing i have ever wrote on this contraption. And im sorry for the reader who had had to sit through this horrific tale. Think me mad, think me crazy if you will. But remember this. My daughter is my only regret. The others i don’t care about. They deserved it. Anger says so. No he's the one who did it all for me. I thank him. And another thing. The intern who gave me a button to give myself excess morphine really should have tried to find a way to limit the dosages i can give myself.  

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