Anger

He dropped it. I told him not to and he dropped it. It’s on the floor now. Smashed. He’s just looking at me.

I feel it. Someone’s fingers have lit a match in my brain and it’s hot. Not birthday-candle, peachy flames but white. Blinding. Like a circuit, it’s speeding around the neurons; like a train with no brakes.

My arms go first. The hair is singeing, the white-hot train spewing white-hot liquid. My fists are clenching with the pressure in my veins. My nails are drawing blood.

There are two circuits: the one now plummeting around my body and one encircling my chest. It’s teasing my heart, telling it to shut up. You shut up. But the white-hot mess is louder than my head.

My knee joints have melted under the train’s heat and are now two iron trunks, waiting to be wielded. Even my toes are prickling with metal, leaking into the muscles: they’re all interconnected springs, perched for the train’s arrival.

It’s all over my body. My head is mute, silently screaming, unheard over the white-hot train’s whistle. It’s in control. I’m not.

What I do next is not because I see red; I see white.

Written from the creative writing class stimulus of 'write about an emotion, without stating what it is'.