Before I started blogging, I was using Google Docs to organize my thoughts and ideas. I still use it. It's very useful. Now that I'm blogging, I can use it for the more formal writing that blogging can't handle. As with all things, it has its purpose.
It was during a flash of inspiration that the following story came to me. It wasn't that I wanted to write it, I had to write it. The story wouldn't go away and the more I thought about ignoring it, the more my mind started to develop it. I titled the story "Rage". It is by no means autobiographical in nature, but it does come from a very dark place. My father's rage was a focal point of my life growing up and there were many times that I felt the fear that young Martin (the protagonist) feels.
I don't know if I could ever write this story beyond what I have done. The glimpses that I have had of it scare me. It is not a happy story. So, without further adieu, here is "Rage".
Martin’s father slowly stood up. His face twisted with rage, his fists clenched and white knuckled. Martin stared into his father’s eyes and saw only hate. Martin carefully backed up, terror etched across his face. He had to get out. If he didn't, he was sure his father would kill him. It was that knowledge that kept him moving.
Without warning his father leapt, his lips pulled back in a snarl. Martin dodged quickly to his left and down the hall. Pain exploded through Martin’s head as his father’s fist grazed the back of his scalp. He stumbled down the hall; his eyes blurry with tears, the outside door his only salvation. If he could get to the door, he could escape. His father wouldn't follow him out into the light. Then they would know what he was.
Just as he reached the door, he felt his father’s hand close on the back of his jacket. His father barked with triumph. Panic roared through Martin. He deftly slipped from his jacket and burst into the cool October afternoon. Without a pause, he jumped the steps to the concrete walkway. Pain lanced through his ankle as he landed. He tucked into a roll that carried him out the front gate. He was free!
Martin lay on the ground for a moment, gasping from the exertion, his heart racing with fear. He gingerly stood up and faced the open doorway where his father hid in the shadows. Even from the safety of the street, Martin could feel his father’s unrelenting malignance. For a second, Martin thought his father would brave the light of day and show the world his darkness. Instead, he closed the door. His body shaking with adrenaline, Martin slowly turned and limped up the street.