Rage

Ever just have those moments when you want to destroy something?

were moments when blindingly fury whirled up out of nowhere, but it wasn't in her nature to stay angry- in fact her anger usually dissolved into tears of frustration. This was quickly degenerating into one of those moments. She needed a release, so many pieces of emotions, words, and thoughts running through her mind until she thought she'd go mad with it. And still there was offered no mercy to her. She was livid, red streaked across her vision and her hands trembled with her impotent rage.
She turned her attention to the empty and pathetic canvas leaning gloomily against the wall. Everything in her was screaming to destroy something, she needed to feel something coming apart in her hands. But she was nothing if not a pillar of tightly strung self control. Her eyes, beginning to swim with unshed tears, landed on a forgotten paint set. A myriad of brushed and paints, long disused now a symbol of beckoning release.
She left her seat at her computer and grabbed the first tube of whatever her hand landed on. Brushes would come later, right now down and dirty was what she needed. She crushed the tube and a crimson sludge oozed out onto her hands- oddly fitting. She smoothed it between her fingers, then slashed it across the canvas; a scarlet horizon befitting her mood. Another slash, and another, and another. Clouds of blood.
Flawless.
Another tube, another color- black, she paused what an incredible ironically morbid choice of colors, but how to not make this some clich� piece of angry artist slather-of-paint-on-canvas? Turning the tube over in her hands, she thought- images flashing through her mind, people, places, scenes, lyrics everything anything that had provoked her anger before. A snarl curled her lips as her minds eye landed on one subject that had caused her more than just a little malcontent. Her hands went to work, abandoning the paint for charcoal and sketching out her base figure- then the brushes and paints.
The black paint returned, slinking on to the once blank surface to form perfectly tasseled onyx hair with true blue highlights, and two slashes for slanted brows- arched in an infuriatingly arrogant manor. Then the tricky operation of mixing the colors just right for that golden whiskey color for the eyes; brown, yellow, red, and just the slightest touch of black for the stained soul the eyes would contain. She spent what seemed like a lifetime on her subjects eyes, perfecting everything about them, from the tiniest freckle in the iris to the sinfully thick lace of the lashes surrounding them. They were seductive eyes, heavy lidded, tipped up at the ends and sensual in their unspoken promises of hot and sleepless nights.
Perfect.
Next was the straight and elegant nose, the ultimate in ideal proportions, leading into the unblemished plains of the cheeks, smooth and honeyed ivory, art imitating life to the fullest. Her hand began to tremble violently and she clenched her jaw at the perfect likeness of Him her mind had spun, not a thing out of place, as if He was standing right here in all his egotistical glory. By sheer force of will she steadied her hands and set to work again, pouring herself into the portrait. There was her rage in the handsomely chiseled line of the jaw; her frustration and confusion in the self-assured twisting smirk of the flawless lips; her pain, and melancholy in the relaxed set of the shoulders and chest as He reclined in a maddeningly attractive manner. He would have loved to see her like this, only just clinging to the barest shreds of her control.
It had always been His favorite thing to bring her to this edge of losing it, and then play with her, her tears had been his greatest victory and ultimate defeat. She stood there, her tears brimming in her lashes, blurring her vision, her breath coming in hiccupping sobs, and stared at the portrait. Her tears vanished in a wave of white-hot rage. Her fist went through the canvas, her other hand curled around the frail wooden framework making it buckle and snap; anger the like of which she'd never known before flooded her veins, and sick joy curled her lips at the wet sound of the material tearing under HER bare hands.
This was what it felt like to destroy something, this was what is was like to take power into her own hands. She snarled, and jerked a final time, the painting clattered to the floor, ripped into dozens of pieces scattered around her. She looked at her hands, a riot of colors staining them, the likeness to blood was uncanny.
Then it was gone, everything, there was nothing left, she dropped to her knees, and just stared smiling quietly at the sweet buzzing white-noise. Nothing, god how'd she'd waited for this magnificently blank moment. Peace, at last.

Author's Note

....writen in one of those moods...