Ropeable she awoke, spitting like a nail gun gone rogue. She hated anger vehemently and by god she fucken hated hate. That ironic thought bringing with it a fresh wave of repulsion, riding her stomach lining fast and hard like a fix of sweet and dirty drugs.
That goddamned book had started this. Who knew reading another's words on a page were possible of wreaking such bloody havoc, seeding the subconscious with this insuppressible vile. The thought both petrified and impressed her by equal measure.
A truckload of firewood was never carted and stacked as proficiently as that morning, head and body ravaging violently against a grasped-together list of extensive crimes and injustices, collated in panic. Tears, meet fuming eruption. An unsavoury pity party.
How she detested this mercenary wrath, choking on it, yet indulging it still. A deep coal seam breaking through to light, a solidifying energy source fighting for a look in. How dare it? She so thought this thing had already been split wide open, chipped out and ordered be gone.
The woodshed was a work of art, no question. Anger washed away with the rains in a paper boat, set free to navigate other shores. Contrary to popular belief, Custer’s last stand wasn’t with Sioux Indians - but inside a girl and a book and an unsuspecting wood pile on some Nelson street.
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