The World of Angry Men - Fiction

 



I have met many angry men. The ones who constantly lash out because they feel they no longer have a place in the world, or so they think. The ones who, once upon a time, looked at me with such desire mingled with confusion, that I thought they were the ONE for me. The ones who took delight in stomping all over my heart until it turned to dust and was no longer worth saving. Yeah, those angry men. I would spend many a night crying over them, those angry men, all the while wondering why they always came to me, ready to destroy me yet again. I wondered what it was about me that they liked/hated. Before going to sleep, I would always say a prayer - dear whoever is listening to me, make me understand why. I closed my eyes, only to open them again and see a new day with no answer in sight. Then, I remembered that it was a Thursday, I prayed the same prayer and went to sleep. When I woke up the next day, I found that I couldn’t move my body. I pulled down the sheet and screamed, or actually bellowed. I was now a man. I sat up and immediately felt anger coursing through my veins. I was now an angry man. I swung my hairy legs over the side of the bed and stood up. I touched my face (stubble, square jaw), and thought to myself - I’m tired. I want to cry but I don’t know how. I want to yell at anyone, everyone but I can’t. I sat down on the bed again and covered my face with my massive hands. I had become an angry man and all I felt was sadness in my slowly beating heart. I looked out of my window to the outside world and felt like a stranger. Who were these people, these changers of the world? These people who demanded their fifteen minutes of fame? I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t face that world, the world I used to happily be a part of. Now, all I wanted to do was sit and think and grumble and maybe scratch my legs. I laid back down and closed my eyes as the anger washed over me, sour and warm. 



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