Her Demon

Ever haunted despite all of her efforts.

First they heard the noises. The guttural grunts of frustration came from her son’s room while she and her boyfriend sat watching television. That was the yellow alert. She figured that he must be having trouble with his iPad again; most likely he can’t get it to pause at the right moment. Six-year olds can be so particular.

She wondered whether she should get up and check on him, but then decided that she shouldn’t have to jump up and frantically attempt to calm him down. She continued to watch the show. She wouldn’t scramble to keep the peace. Not anymore.

The grunts then turned into short, harsh mutters, coupled with low thuds that she imagined could only be his hand trying to force the screen to comply. Orange alert. Her body tensed, and she raised her head toward the bedroom door, wondering if six steps and a doorknob twist to intervene would be too much to hope for.

And that’s when they heard the crash. Red alert was full force and she froze. Her boyfriend looked up inquisitively at the door and then looked at her. They both knew. He got up and went to the bedroom, her stiffened body still planted on the couch willing away the truth. After a few moments she was called into the room, and she had to face her demon.

A large fracture spread across the upper-right corner of the tablet screen, rendering it obstructed and useless.

She sharply scolded him and as she felt the hot rage creep over her, she stormed out of the room and went out the front door. She had to walk, had to calm down. This was the third electronic gadget he had broken violently, and the second tablet. Of course he was three and she was still married to his father then, but the screaming images haunt her still as if he did them in all in a row. The conundrum boiled inside of her-she was always telling him how to control his anger and when she has a rightful reason to be angry herself, she felt she had to stifle it. Why does he get to be angry and she can’t?

She couldn’t smother his father out of him. She thought that after two years of therapy and reconditioning, he would balance out. But the calls from school still came. The broken toys still continued. The countless discipline trials and revisions ensued. Every thud she would hear from his tantrums would sling her back into her old trailer-her husband yelling at the game console and throwing the controller, kicking the dog and punching the walls…

She tried to remind herself that that life was dead and that he is still so young, still malleable. She tried to remember that anger itself is permissible even though she was burned alive by it in a prior lifetime.

She made her way back into the house and walked into the room, and she had to face her demon.

© 2018 Cobblestone Traveler

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Onlyme

Rage is a terrible thing. Particularly when it comes from inherited ways via a family. And all the therapy and help in a way. Never solves the actual problems and behaviour long term. Like your poem explains perfectly.