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It was all teeth and sharp edges, as it often was with my mother. Screams echo against kitchen walls, glass shattering against tile.
My voice rips from my throat, high pitched, furious and foreign.
I can’t quite remember what I said, but I remember how it tasted in my mouth, the way it felt coming up out of my throat, it was bitter and distant, rising like bile and splattering on every surface. Painting everything with my anger, with my utter distain.
I could hear it so loudly in my ears, so obnoxiously there, but it didn’t feel like my voice, it couldn’t have been, I never yelled, or screamed or made myself any larger than I had too be; then what I was right then.
But it was my voice, and it was cutting its way through my neck, rattling my teeth. I have never experienced anger in the way other people do, but I was so, so something, so something I was bleeding with it, spilling over and emptying myself out with such a something that I couldn’t quite tell you.
I hadn’t yelled like that in years. There’s only been a handful of times that I had, and the last time I did I was wishing death on someone. On my father, if you could even call him that, which you can’t, couldn’t, and never should.
And that’s what it feels like every time I yell, it feels like wishing death on someone. So I try not to do it.
Usually, I’m am loud in every sense of the word, unless I am angry, then I am so very quiet, so quiet I could lose myself in the silence.
So again, I couldn’t tell you exactly why I had fallen far enough to yell like this, but I do think it’s fitting, or poetic, for the last few times I yelled to be directed at my mother and “father”.