Rage

by Ryan, Paul W.

All I could think about was how many different ways I wanted to kill him. How I wished Tony was never there to pull me off him that night. If he wasn’t here now, acting as his bodyguard. I would have given anything in the world to keep hitting him again and again, over and over until my hand and his bestial face eroded into nothingness.

  “Christ, you're such a buzz-kill lately.”

  My fists clenched so hard that they turned white. Jason smiled as he took notice, that same sadistic smile he saved only for Playdates. Jonathan was back on his feet, clutching his jaw. He shuffled slightly behind me.

  “You and I both killed a man, Pete. We’re bonded for life now because of that. Joined at the hip. A man died because of us. You’re stuck with me now, with all of us. Don’t forget that.”

  “Would have also been a dead woman if I hadn’t beaten some sense into you.”

  “Well congrat–u–fucking–lations, Mr. Hero. What do you want? A medal?”

  His nostrils flared. Tony wedged his way into the centre, putting his broad shoulders between us.

  “She was a sub, Pete, it was all part of the act. It’s what they get paid to do for fuck’s sake—even you know that.”

  “Come on, Jason, this whole rage thing and the Playdates—we both knew this was supposed to be a cure, not a lifestyle. Marcus died because of what we were becoming.”

  “Can you even hear yourself anymore? You've gone against everything you used to say! Everything! Yeah, Marcus is dead, and it sucks, but he wasn’t strong enough for what we’re trying to do here, Pete! Tell me: you want to be a nobody or die a legend?”

  A glow of anger worked its way up his face as he studied me with narrowing eyes.

  “Shit, man, I know that look. Tell me now, Pete, and don’t go bullshitting me because I’ll know, all right? I’ll fucking know like I always do. Your words and 'promises' of change—was it all bullshit? Yes or no?”

  The absolute terror of sobriety was finally washing over me after three solid years. The things I had said; the things I had done. The shakes and jitters had all but passed; all those ghosts of regret and sorrow haunted me now. The ghosts of my past knew exactly where I was and they’d all come together for one big haunting party. The past, present, and future of Peter Clayton, all rolled into one bruised and battered middle-aged man. Here I was, stone-cold sober on this fantastic, grim ride to destruction with no way to escape—and I had just given the driver’s seat over to Jason.

  I could see it all now.

  A twitch.

  Diluted pupils.

  It was all there.

  Somewhere further down the hall I heard the approaching footsteps of two security guards, beckoned forward by the urging shrills and stabbing finger of the older woman.

  “Jason, I—”

  “No, you’re right, Pete. Fuck it then! Fuck it all! Fuck the goddamn lot of you!”

  The words were like an ugly lump in his throat. He knocked his shoulder against mine as he stormed past. Pain shot up the side of my neck, but I fought to keep my composure. He called out over his shoulder.

  “If I ever see you again, Pete. I'll kill you.”

  “Not unless I kill you first,” I muttered under my breath.

  Jason stormed off into the night just before security showed up. A car screeched to a halt just inches before him. He leaned over the bumper, shoving his raised middle finger into the windscreen before walking off into the dead of the night. Tony straightened the cuffs of his shirt. His bored eyes flicked between Jonathan and me.

  “It was once a beautiful little thing you created, Pete. Sadly, you’re not the only rage dealer out here and well; we all need to get our fix somehow. Call it black market, call it whatever you want. Jason and I talked, and well, we’re not ready to quit, at least not yet. I trust you’ll understand. It’s nothing personal—just strictly business.”

  I looked at him coldly as he extended his hand out for a handshake. Dissatisfied, he lowered his hand and nodded at both of us. As calmly as could be, he made his way out of the exit, his rich satin blazer draped over one shoulder, whistling all the while.

  “There better be a Playdate soon, Pete, or this little group of ours is going to tear itself apart from the inside out,” Jonathan said.

  “You’re supposed to be our rage dealer. Get it sorted before we all end up killing each other.”

  He pressed a narrow, paint-speckled finger into my chest. I felt another dagger of pain shoot up into my heart. Behind me, I could sense the presence of two looming security guards.

  “Don’t worry,” I replied. “I know what I need to do.”

  FROM THE DIARY OF PETER CLAYTON

  A heroin addict does not feel regret or shame. They hardly feel anything anymore. All they live for is the next hit. All they need is that fresh vein to tap into, to let the needle slide underneath their dead skin and pump them full of the elixir of life. The drug is the one who talks and adapts the person’s tongue. The drug wears their skin and is their life and death as one.

  Rage coursed through my dead veins, cold and strong. Like a thick, black honey, it washed away all emotion. All pain, sadness, and shame were caught in its rushing black torrent—the great flood, the Black Plague of Peter Clayton’s body.

  They say that after a certain length of time, getting off the drug is as likely to kill you as remaining on the drug. And even when you try to go cold turkey, all it takes is one small slip and then you’re an addict again. This sensation does not simply pass; it is one the person now wears under their skin. It’s part of them now, whether they want it or not. Some addicts simply substitute one drug for another when they want to quit. For heroin addicts, its methadone, which is more harmful and more addictive than the original drug they were hooked on. Alcoholics get the cold sweats. They shiver, shake, and vomit as their bodies slowly detox.

  They suffer hard and true.

  For rage addicts, it seemed to be something entirely different.

  Most people are caught in this purgatory, this ever-sliding grey slope, tipping more and more toward damnation. I could almost envision myself at the peak of this slope, kicking away pleading hands and laughing as they plunged into the dark abyss below again and again. Now, I had fallen and was sliding down this grey, granite slope towards the yawning abyss—with no one to blame but myself.

  CHAPTER 29

  I remember the rain more than anything on that day. I sat in a quaint, little café in the suburbs late that night. I'd made the call and arranged the meeting. It was easy to find the number. All the contacts and pieces were right in front of me. All I had to do was connect the dots.

  The language of the rain babbled against the windows, like the sky above was pissed at me, hitting the pavement outside in dirty, polluted exclamation marks.

  I checked my watch again and took another patient sip of coffee.

  I knew she would come eventually.

  The brush of nature had diluted the horizon as I stared out, painting angry black smudges and stains. Blinking red sirens from a nearby ambulance cast crimson pools of light across half of the café.

  Then I saw her.

  The door swung open. A little bell chimed softly overhead. She had no umbrella or jacket, nothing except a blank stare. Her fiery, red hair was pasted onto her soft face and shoulders.

  I had seen her before, long before the Playdate. Long before all of this. She was the woman I had seen in the rain the night of the first killing. The woman who had, until just recently, lived on the floor above me with her boyfriend and I never knew. The woman who had the argument with him telling him about her life as a sex worker. The boyfriend had lost his temper, threatened to hit her, and smashed a beer bottle against the wall behind her. He had kicked her out of their home. Our lives had crossed once before and were destined to cross once again at this moment in time: she was the ghost in the street.

  Her eyes were dark, like two panthers stalking her surroundings until they spotted me. A flicker of red glistened just under all her dark ma
keup.

  The rain wept down her frail body, gathering in sad pools at her feet just like it had before. Like a record playing on repeat for the second time, I watched as she dragged her sad, wet feet across the floor towards me.

  She said nothing as she sank into the booth facing me. I offered her some coffee, but she refused.

  I sat patiently, taking another long sip of coffee. There was no rush.

  “You promise you will help me, right?” she finally said.

  I lowered my coffee and calmly reassured her that I would.

  “And those two . . .men . . .”

  I nodded again. She had my word.

  “Jason Casey and Tony Garcia. They will pay, right?”

  “Of course,” I replied.

  She sat studying me with those sad, dark eyes. I raised my coffee for another long gulp.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  I shrugged.

  “Really, why are you helping me?”

  “Call it a guilty conscience.”

  I smiled at her yet she did not look amused.

  “It’s good that you’re finally developing a conscience, Peter Clayton, after all you’ve done.”

  “Maybe I’m trying to seek redemption, or at least give it a little try and see what the whole craze is all about,” I suggested.

  “You should let your other, what was it you called them again? Your ‘Playdates’, right? Perhaps you should let them know how sorry you feel. Can you even imagine how it feels? The terror. The pain. Do you have any idea how it feels?”

  An older couple looked over at us.

  “Well? Do you?

  There were tears swelling up behind those eyes, but she was doing her best to fight them down. A drop of blood dripped from a still healing cut in the corner of her right eye and ran down her cheek. Her shaking hand raced up to cover it.

  “Not very good I imagine,” I said, offering her a napkin.

  “You know, I’ve been a sub for over five years. I know how it feels to be fucked around. I know how it feels to be beaten and used. But I also know when it’s real and when it’s pretend, but that . . . that was something else. Your friends were trying to beat or fuck me to death, whichever came first, until you intervened. I thought you were a saviour until I heard more about you from the others.”

  “Oh really?” I asked. “What did they have to say?”

  “I know that it was you that left Steve Connolly in a ditch outside town after one of your Playdates. I heard about how you ran down a homeless man the night after your father died. All this time I lived above a monster, and here I used to think I knew what a monster was. I wonder how many others there have been? If you even remember them all anymore. You’ve no idea how much you’ve ruined these people’s lives, do you?”

  I remained silent and took another long sip of coffee.

  “You should try it, Peter, and see how alive it makes you feel. Or better yet, ask one of the others I’ve found to return the favour. I’m sure most of them would be too willing to do so now that they’re not afraid of you anymore.”

  Her fists curled into tiny little balls of pale flesh. Her rage was an exotic perfume, so enticing and welcoming. I wanted to show her that I felt some remorse, some regret, yet all I felt was drunk on that fragrance. That sweet, pure rage hit. Not like the other rage hits—this was pure, distilled rage. It was the finest hit I’d ever experienced in my life and I was in the throes of ecstasy, powerless to fight my addiction.

  “Tell me. Do you even feel sorry?”

  I remained silent, lapping up every spat vowel and slashed constant. It was beautiful. I wanted to stay clean, I really did. But this . . . this was utter ecstasy.

  “Answer me, dammit!”

  “I’ve never been very good with words,” I responded. Just another minute more, I begged. Please, I don’t want this feeling to ever end.

  “I know. Fists and blood have always been the way you communicate.”

  Chloe, or Phoenix as was her working name, got up to leave. It felt like my world was being ripped out from under me.

  “You have until tomorrow to do what needs to be done. After then, the Survivors and I are coming for you . . . all of you, one by one.”

  Anger had scalded away her fear—the fear of living, the fear of loving and swiftly it had grown, ravenous, like an all-seeing demon. A demon that had pinned me down and injected me with the sweetest drug I had ever felt. It was the most beautiful sensation of my life. My knees trembled. My heart raced, not with fear, but with pure bliss.

  Without another word, Phoenix left the café. Her eyes flashed like two red-hot coals as she took one last time at me before she walked out the door and back into the night. I felt overcome with a strange sensation as I started to come down from that rather intense rage hit. It was a strange mix of beauty and melancholy.

  “Such a nice girl,” I thought aloud. I was already looking forward to the next time I could see her. Even if this was the last time I would see her without her trying to bludgeon my head in.

  To feel that rage again would be the sweetest death I could ever have hoped for: I would be her Playdate. The Survivors would slay these monsters of society I had created and fix this whole mess. These paladins of righteousness; those poor, damaged souls who were so pissed off they had formed together to rid the cancer that plagued their community before it affected anyone else. How brave and noble of them.

  Her rage had drawn her to form the Survivors and only in rage would it all end. It took anger to face anger.

  Fight fire with fire.

  They never say fight fire with peace. And so it seemed that this angry little ghost, who had unknowingly haunted my building, would be the one to kill me.

  * * *

  I sat in the booth watching the pouring rain. The rain in this city doesn’t fall, it screams down at the pavement like little angry balls of water. It hits with such force that sometimes I’m convinced there’s someone or something up there that is just pissed off at us all. Like God is just wishing he had saved enough water for another flood, so now he’s just flinging down pellets of rain in frustration at how blindingly idiotic we can be at times.

  The coffee had long gone cold. The rest of the café had left one by one. The waitresses were clearing out the last of the tables and tallying up the end of day totals.

  Outside, a body was being placed into the back of an ambulance.

  A new ghost in this city, it would seem.

  Alone, I reflected on what we’d become and how to set it all right.

  I’d set the dogs loose on everyone: my best friend, my richest friend, my once possible future girlfriend, and a narcotic tortured artist who I was loathe calling a friend. But I didn’t care. I had an audience. The world was about to see a hero slay some monsters.

  FROM THE DIARY OF PETER CLAYTON

  They say that two wrongs will make a right. Blood for blood. Eye for an eye. Our language is ripe with expressions about vengeance and righting a wrong.

  Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.

  All through history, there has been a strong desire to see an evil or wrong person suffer. We need to believe that their evil actions will not go unpunished, and are all too eager to play the hand of the judge, jury, and executioner. It’s why all major religions believe in a form of hell or eternal damnation in some form. Zoroastrians believed that if you fell off the Bridge of Chinvat, you went to hell. The Aztecs believed in Mictian. Christians, Islams, and even Buddhists all believe in a form of hell—a place of eternal suffering for the evil doer to suffer their due justice. We believe in these things, not only to restore balance, but also to sate our desire for vengeance. We smile and go about our daily lives, believing that billions of evil people are suffering an eternity of agony so we can sleep sounder at night.

  Unfortunately, we are bound by our desire for vengeance just as much as our primal rage addictions. The two go hand-in-hand.

  Vengeance is a dish best served cold.

 
; ‘He who angers you; conquers you’, is what they say. They are immediately bound to your will, like thralls—they will go out of their way to release some of that anger out on you. All logic and reasoning will abandon them in the pursuit of their just vengeance. There’s nothing wrong with anger of course—provided you put it to good use.

  Here I was playing with an inferno, and still convinced I could somehow control it, that I could still somehow sculpt it back into a small, flickering flame.

  ‘Be not angry that you cannot make others as you wish them, since you cannot make yourself as you wish to be.’ That was what resonated the most within me. Not the preaching of burning in hell or eternal suffering—I didn’t believe in any of that anyway.

  Was I just sculpting a bunch of people into tiny Peter Claytons? Trimming the edges here and there so they would fit the mould—the rage design—forcing them into a shape I was too stubborn to change. An army of angry Peter Claytons—I couldn’t think of anything more comically terrifying in the entire world.

  Revenge is often like biting a dog because the dog bit you.

  Sarah once told me that love implies anger. A man who is angered by nothing cares about nothing. My anger always had its reasons. I knew I was in love with Sarah from the beginning. She was the ying to my yang, the light to where I was the dark.

  But I had driven her away now, and the night was eternal. In the night sky above, there seemed to be less and less stars with every night. There was no sun. No sea to rise and wash it all away. There was just rage.

  Some days I wonder how all the former Playdates felt.

  Was it my face they saw before they tried to sleep at night? Had their sense of order or justice in this world been shattered? How would they rate their experience on a scale of 1 -10?

  Deep down the anger seed had been planted long ago by me, Johnny Rageseed, and sprouted into these clusters of trees that went by the name ‘Survivors.'

  I didn’t plan on waiting around for God or some crazed group of modern day Inquisitors to come and do my dirty work for me.