Tantrum

Suddenly she turned and hurled herself at him. Not knowing what action to take she stopped for a moment and looked frantically from side to side. Spying a glass of water on the bedside cabinet, she ran to it and raised it above her head like some kind of holy grail. It was thrown wildly at the photo on the wall, the clear liquid running down his monochrome face and the broken glass. His fixed smile however, remained intact, as did the photo's position on the wall.

"Amy!"

She grabbed the mirror and pulled it from the dresser. It weighed heavily in her hands but she didn't care, she smashed it onto the wooden floorboards. Pieces of reflections bounced aimlessly, scattering all around.

"Please Amy that’s seven years bad-"

She flung open the wardrobe doors and tore out armfuls of clothing from their darkened home. These she then began to rip to shreds with a steady unwavering hand. Those she couldn't summon the strength to destroy she proceeded to befoul beneath her pounding, stomping boots, all the while covering them in lashings of saliva and enormous green gobs of spit.

"The Armani!..."

She screamed in a pitched wail of fury and grabbed the unfortunate wooden rocking chair nearest to the window. Through the pane it went, sailing onto the flowerbed below where it cast apart the roses like a plunging boulder in a lake of red and pink.

"Amy could you just listen for a moment-"

Charging like a wild thing she arrived at the other side of the room twixt the bed and fireplace. The ornaments were ungraciously swept from the mantelpiece and the pages were torn from the books they belonged in. The mania was truly abounded now!

The draws of the bedside set were pulled mercilessly out. She kicked and stamped the interminable contents away and laughed at the negligee; enjoying watching it flop unceremoniously to the ground. Then bending with all the grace of a broken ironing board, she gathered the unmentionables and threw them out the window and into the ether.

"Oh Amy."

Beating her hands on the wardrobe doors and clawing at her own sickening ginger hair it seemed as if she had finally run out of ideas.

"Darling?

Revitalised she spat furious curses at the world and its total benign indifference to everything, and moved to the dresser and its trove of makeup. In a moment of unbridled inspiration she grabbed one fat sloppy lipstick after another and daubed the wall in crude phalluses, dirty profanities and hideous absurdities. She then threw the foundations, the applications, the scrubs, the pencils, the cans and the rollers against that poor desecrated wall where they splattered, shattered, scattered and rolled slowly down to the ground. This entire process was done to a laudable soundtrack of moaning burbles and gnashing teeth.

"...."

Breathing heavily she pounded her chest in a primal rage. She rubbed her hands over her body lustily. She then launched herself onto the duvet and draped it around her shoulders. She fell off the bed; baying like a dog whilst swaddled and wrapped within its padded layers. Curled, foetal like, on the floor in the mess of makeup, shards of glass and splinters of wood she panted. She was spent, shattered; expired.

She vomited then, spitting the mess onto the floor and whimpering softly. Her hair trailed into the puddle as she lay breathing heavily, totally unable to continue.

“Feel better now love?

“You know what. I do.”

“Quite the performance.”

“This rage therapy really works.”

“It worked wonders for your Aunt Sonia you know. After the divorce…”

“I just thought I’d give it a go.”

“Well I agree, it just would have been nice if you could have done it, you know, at your house, in your own room.”

“Look I’ve been really stressed at work.”

“Of course.”

“Mum?”

"I know. I'll put the kettle on."

"Ta."