Force The Storm

A story about the consequences of rage, and foresight's intriguing need for violence.

Rage pure and unannounced came flying, fast and deadly as a drone. The haggard struggle of chemicals and memories, thoughts of once right experiences, of positive contexts, now trailing away, trapped on the smoke-scummed ceiling. Dan O'Dowd hated waking up.

Lauren had been gone for over a year, and in that time Dan had on average 3 serious outbursts a day, but nothing even close to the event that took place in Garrety's music shop. This cold moment of rage resulted in yet another prolonged anger-management course, this one more tedious and angering than the five that had come before it.

Dan O'Dowd had a unique sense of dissolution. Foster homes, cheating girlfriends, and the general existence of his present society had instilled in his young self an everlasting condition of hatred toward almost everything. But it had gotten especially intense after Lauren.

Now, as he was walking back through the packed Saturday streets, after completing the latest court-appointed course, he was ashamed to find himself recalling the violent instance in the music shop with nostalgia. He loathed every memory of his weakness, yet they seemed to sustain him through some extreme art of self-destruction.

The guy in Garrety's had it coming, though.

Not just because he had a side-fringe; he deserved the beating on account of his self-centred display on the main-shop floor.

Dan had gone into the shop to get a fresh set of strings, and was talking to the bearded clerk when the man and teenager arrived in the shop. Straight away, the mocking, goth-faced customer tried to get the attention of all the other shoppers. First by talking really loudly about how much he knew about guitars, then by picking up one of the kazoos from the counter-top and wheezing through it plainly for attention. Dan broke off from the conversation with the hippy-worker, went over to the guy and said, in a fairly calm manner, “Sorry man, could you keep it down please, I'm trying to talk here,”

“I wouldn't go for those,” replied the runt, pointing to the packet of strings laid out on the counter. Dan, patient as was possible, sighed.

“Whys that?”

“Because,” said the guy with a moronic smirk. “There's no guitar attached to them.”

His girlfriend hissed comically, but Dan could see her heart wasn't in it. Dan nodded absently, trying to remove his mind from the scene, and turned around.

He thought that would be it, but as soon as his back was turned, the high-pitch shriek of a kazoo sent shocks of fright through his bones.

He was really, really trying.

With a swift swivel, he turned around and said, “Put that f*****g thing down now, or I'll put you down.”

The guy's girlfriend smiled sideways, as if delighted by the threat to her partner. The guy's face went solemn. “Jesus,” he said in a falsetto. “What's the problem Golum?”

“Good one,” said Dan, and went to turn once again to the cashier. Before he had even said a word, the kazoo shrieked out a horrendous bellow right by his ear.

Dan didn't even think about it; he turned back to the man and swung a fist viciously to the kazoo which was still in the tormentor's mouth. The punch landed awkwardly on the front of the minute musical instrument with a sharp cracking noise. The guy's girlfriend let out a yelp of panic. The guy staggered back against the counter, and the kazoo fell to the floor in splinters, along with the shattered cracklings of his two front teeth. When the girl saw the amount of blood coming from her boyfriend's mouth she cried out, once, in angst. The beaten emo retreated toward the entrance, his girlfriend trailing in front like a shield of hips and lip-gloss.

The shop-floor was silent. Dan O'Dowd took a few steps backwards, sat down on one of the tuning stools, said “Sorry,” to the worker, and waited for the police.

He had never hurt anybody like this before, not with such physical damage, but the past year had been a time of great, disturbed regression.

And it was only going to get worse, like a dark tsunami rising from an even darker ocean.

1

Minding both the sun and his own business, Dan skulked along the inner-city streets with his head dipped slightly, using the scrawls and symbols of light in his peripheral vision as a distraction. Everything in this city reminded him of Lauren: the shopping-centre where he used to get them their hangover burgers, the hairdressers where he would buy her a gift-token after almost every argument, the many flats dotted about the town-centre in which they lived.....the reminders were endless. And yet he couldn't bring himself to move. If only-

 

His thoughts were interrupted by the blistering honk of a braked hatchback. The fright Dan got was immediately turned into vexation. The driver was young, about the same age as Dan. His chaviness was cringe-worthy: peaked cap, gelled down fringe, gold chain. A teenage girl with an exo-skeleton of make-up was in the passenger-seat, looking up from her phone. Dan despised the both of them. So much, that he found himself unable to move.

 

The little car beeped again, once, twice, each time picking Dan's nerves like a badly home-made banjo. He stood there, in the middle of the street, hands crunched into fists, trembling irrationally. Any second now...

 

When the car squawked again, a split-decision saved Dan and indeed the smug scumbag a lot of hassle. Instead of stalking toward the driver, pulling the b*****d out of the car, and stomping his face in, Dan began to run.

And kept on running.

 

Sprinting more like it. Weaving between people; grinning or scowling strangers who no doubt found the sight of the frantic runner amusing. Dan could feel their steely stares, but none of it mattered. The anger, instead of cooling off with the spontaneous exercise, increased.

As Dan's heartbeat quickened, so did his pace, and his hostility. He wanted to scream loudly for a long time, but he knew if he erupted in such a way, the authorities would be informed, and he didn't want that again. All he had at that time was motion and distance. It took him quite a while before he realized neither was a cure for his irrational nature.

When he finally got back to his flat he was soaked with sweat yet his bones shivered from the exertion. He had expected some sort of calm after his long sprint, but there was no sense of release, only dread, negativity. He sat down to the television with three nuked burgers and a bowl of ice-cream. In his stone he lost the remote and was too busy with his dessert to care. However, when the news came on after Unsealed Alien Files there was an undercurrent of tension he couldn't explain but which became clear quickly.

 

A depressing segment about children in forced marriages made him shovel the ice-cream too hard and a sugary splinter spattered him in the eye. He shot up out of the chair, raised the bowl above his head with both hands, roared, “C**T!” and smashed it to the cold linoleum.

 

With brutal timing, the phone across the room on the kitchenette counter started to ring. Dan's first thought was to shoot across the room, answer, and erupt in a hurricane of abuse, regardless of caller. He carried out the first intention, but when he heard the doctor's voice he forced the storm back down. This was important.

When doctor O’Keeffe registered the tense voice he asked Dan what the problem was, and Dan had to briefly explain himself. The doctor's response was deadpan but caring. The usual possibilities were offered which ranged from learning a language to hypnotism and everything in between. Then the doctor made a suggestion that actually intrigued Dan.

He thought about it long after the phone-call ended, as he poured cup after cup of pear vodka, playing eeni-menee- mynee-mo with the cheapest night-clubs in town.

2

The news was turned to BBC radio3. Dan hoped some nice soothing classical music would ease the ascent to drunkeness. Instead, Brahms First Symphony came bursting through the speakers, filling Dan with its melodic adrenaline. He rocked his head along to the beats, moshing by himself. By the time Brahms was finished, Dan was already buzzing by the third cupfull.

 

He left the house ready for a night out: unshaven, hair scruffy, crude black pants, grey-purple flannels, a pair of black, atypical shoes, and three pre-rolled joints. The night would be short indeed.

 

There was a seven foot model of The Predator alien in exquisite detail stood in the reception, and the jokes Dan heard in the small queue outside the night-club was enough to warrant several preliminary sighs.

 

When he finally got inside, he ordered a shot of vodka and a pint of Guinness and stood by the bar, waiting for his friends to arrive. The innocuous pop song was so loud it seemed to wear away at the other sense as well, like some unspeakable torture technique, and Dan was fidgeting in the seat, growing more and more annoyed with every ridiculous verse. He had not even begun to address the idiots poncing and wavering tragically on the dance-floor.

While he was waiting he finished the glass, ordered the same again, and sat down on the stool.

 

There was a young blonde woman standing amongst a group on the adjacent side of the dancefloor. She glanced over once or twice, but Dan couldn't tell if it was at him, for it rarely was. He ordered the same drinks again and shortly afterwards Jimmy arrived with his drug-dealing cousin; they both gulped down a double vodka, and then all three went outside to have the first joint of the night.

 

Shortly after lighting it up, Jimmy's ecstatic cousin thanked Dan and gave him a quick cameo of an eighth ball of cocaine he intended on sharing around. Dan's heart lit up; it was exactly what he needed. They went around the corner and Dan was presented with a substantial pod of powder served on a credit-card. He leaned over with one nostril pinned, and

“......it just makes you so angry you know....I mean when they privatize the actual seeds themselves...I mean how fucked up is that? Thecunts f**k with them genetically so that the farmers only get one harvest. The poor little farmers will be dependent on them then, you know? Sorry, I don't mean to talk the head off you, I just knew I had to talk to you, you're so beautiful, honestly you're one of-”

...crashing against the side of the packed staircase, dragged toward the alley, the toilets. The sneaky knee pops up, Dan slams it down with the flat of his hand, swings up, jabs forward......

...the night wind cool on his wounds, total stillness, the pulsing of music from inside the night-club. Jimmy's cousin laughing, laughing, “a f*****g cartoon!”

The group of irate strangers back off when he smashes the bottle off his own head.

3

The morning following, for an entire minute, Dan believed he had murdered someone. His clothes had thick splotches of dark red on them, and only shards of memory remained. One stood out: he remembered standing in alley by himself with a broken bottle in his hand, panting. When he felt his own head there were cuts, creases, crisps of blood, and sharp nubs of glass like vicious glitter sticking to his scalp.

 

He called Jimmy as soon as he registered the dried shades caked to his clothes and was told that the blood was his own, most of it anyway, and that nobody had been killed. After that call, Dan knew deep down that he could have done something irreparable while in that state, something unthinkable. A cold feeling filled him.

He understood then that he'd have to find another way to escape. And although it seemed improbable at the time, there was a path to peace and joy; all that stood in his way was the most terrifying series of events he would ever experience.

 

He read a book when he was a teenager on the subject of anger-management. It was an old and outdated text but he remembered finding it very helpful, and one of the exercises came to mind now.

The exact guidelines eluded him, but the essence of the subject was there to recall: create a fictional being either on a page or in your head, and transfer all the anger and hate you feel to this imaginary character. It sounded so simple, but Dan recounted the vivid release he felt after completing a few of these retro exercises. And anyway, it couldn't hurt.

 

He sat down to his laptop and began.

 

He created a monster using an incredibly realistic app and called him Roy Moynihan. There was not one but three scars on his face, as if he had been raked at some point in the remote past. The eyes were dark as singularities, and the smile he managed to manufacture was so smug and disturbing it made Dan, the creator, shiver. To top it all off Dan gave his monster the slick black hair of Michael Myers. And then it was time for the fun part.

Each social media he joined as Moynihan had sections that let you build up an image of yourself: favourite films, hobbies, etc.., and it was here that Moynihan really came to life.

 

By the time Dan was finished dissecting the various trends and associations of modern society, he was shedding sweat, red in the face, throat dry. He finalised the process on Moynihan6x3's twitter account with the tweet, 'just strangled a nice young lady under a bridge,' and sat back.

 

When he checked the clock, he saw that he had spent the better part of three hours at the task and.......he felt great!

It had worked; the feeling was sublime.

However, this brief cameo of relief would not last long and when it shattered, the residual splinters reflected only variations of his lingering madness.

4

That night he was woken several times by dreams, nightmares, and everything in between. When he woke, the fragments he remembered involved him giving birth to a Siamese lamb which in turn gave birth to a healthy baby. And that's what disturbed him, the fact that the infant was normal. After he had created his online alter-ego, the nightmare would've made sense if the animal had given birth to some symbolic freak, but instead the sleeping film implied that the mutant he had devised was perfectly acceptable. So that morning his main thought was: why wasn't that baby deformed?

 

Of course, he was furious.

 

Knowing he was unlikely to ever get an answer to his absurd question, he brushed off the hideous images and turned his attention to the television. While the innocuous day-time programmes hustled on, he turned on the laptop and went about reviewing the previous night's work.

 

Something on the screen stirred in him a deep, mind-bending curiosity. Why now?

 

It didn't make any sense. After all his efforts at restoring the relationship, Lauren had flat-out ignored him. Not straight away; she only resorted to total disconnection after he'd hounded her for weeks. So why would she send him a message now? Out of the blue?

 

Before he could click into the message, something caught his attention.

'Woman found dead under Ferry-lane bridge.'

 

Weird.

 

More than weird. He had to read on.

 

She was strangled some time during the night. Several witnesses gave a description of the suspect. There was a link. Dan dabbed down the key, and the image that came on the screen gave him the coldest chill of his life.

 

It was Roy Moynihan. There was no doubt about it. The scars weren't the only correlation; the eyes had that same despicable quality as well. But what convinced Dan of the identity was the surge of panic which ran through his body as soon as he had seen the photo-fit. Somehow, the sketch artist had managed to portray what Dan himself had failed to conjure. The calm, demented expression on the police suspect's face was the kind of soulless menace Dan had seen in his mind's eye the night before, right down to the wiry smirking crows-feet in the corners of those horrible eyes. But.......how?

 

Assuming he wasn't insane, (big assumption) there had to be a rational explanation. Maybe he had seen the man somewhere before and had sub-consciously manifested his image. But what about the bridge? The murder? How could he possibly have foreseen that? With growing unease, he scanned the rest of the page, and things soon became surreal.

According to BBC Northwest news, the suspect, Roy Moynihan, mid 20's, of no fixed abode, had boasted about the killing on twitter. And the profile Dan had set up, identical tweet included, came on the screen.

 

Well......this was actually happening. Somehow, it was happening to him. But for Gods' sake HOW?

 

He began his investigation by calling up the first social media on which the profile had been set up. He typed in the simple password, the same numbers and letters he'd been using since he was a teenager.

 

It would not work.

 

He forced himself to relax, take a breath, and then he slowly tried again. When he failed to gain access he gave it a go on the other sites he had joined as Roy Moynihan. These were also inaccessible. Hard fear began to set in. Unreality dawned like the surfacing of a screaming, melting whale in a lake of lava. This just could not be happening.

The last time Dan O'Dowd was even close to being this afraid was the day Lauren broken up with him-

 

The message!

 

He quickly returned to the message she had sent him, hoping for something, anything positive.

He could not have been more wrong.

5

I really do like you, she wrote, but I just can't get into another relationship, it's too soon. My last boyfriend was so controlling, it felt like I had a third parent. And I've just got rid of him. Lol! I'm enjoying the way things are between us Eamonn, and I hope you don't see this as a rejection, because it's not. I'm not saying no. I'm just saying.....not yet. ;) x x x x x

Oh my dear God! Dan thought, got rid of me? Is that how it was? Sure he was insecure and maybe even a little possessive, but that's just because he was terrified of the power she had over him. But he never thought she despised him in this way. Well, he f*****g knew now.

 

He could not remember feeling so low, and it was an eery feeling, even worse than the mix of emotions he felt when pondering whether he'd supernaturally generated a murderer. Devastation would have been a holiday to him in those moments. What he experienced in response to Lauren's accidental message was a brand new type of misery. He simply didn't know what to do, or how to do it. And then, as with most animals, he reverted to what he knew best.

He flung the mug of cold coffee off the wall and it smashed and clattered to the floor. He went to get up but his breaking heart made shivering idiots of his legs, and he couldn't even scream. On the second attempt, he rose from the couch, teeth clenched, and stood there, as lost and lonely as a glass slipper in a brothel. And then the reality of the context bore through his soul, raw and heavy.

Lauren was with someone, and it was serious, or, was going to be serious soon. Much to his own surprise, Dan didn't care who it was �" he didn't know anyone called Eamonn, anyway �" all he kept thinking was, all this time I've been racked with passion and regret, seething with hope and remorse while she's been off with Eamonn.

It struck home for the first time since the break-up that he would never be with Lauren again, and the depression which threatened him was so potent it was immediately transformed into good old reliable rage. In this mixed mindset, the former problem of the mystery murderer gave him an abhorrent half-fantasy in which he 'sicced' his monstrous creation on her. However, this instance of depravity passed and soon he was sitting back down, head in his hands, calm enough to cry.

6

One thing at a time. The unknown first.

 

He had to get access to those accounts, to figure out what was going on, but none of the passwords worked, and when he clicked the icon to resend them his details wouldn't register. What else was there to do?

He thought about calling the police, but what would he say? I somehow managed to produce a savage strangler in my spare time? There didn't seem to be any way forward. All he could do was stare at the screen, at Roy Moynihan's grim tweet, lost in mischievous gloom.

When he finally snapped out of the unhelpful trance he realized, to his disappointment, that he cared more about the problem with Lauren than he did about the obscene situation with Roy.

He stabbed his way to facebook and couldn't find Lauren anywhere. She had 'blocked' him. After the blunder on her part she had blocked him. The ever-present outrage that existed like an undercurrent in the veins of Dan O'Dowd suddenly burst forward.

 

The scream was loud and long, a closed-mouth growl, chin tucked into his chest, eyes blazing at the screen. He slammed the laptop shut, and let it fall to the ground when he stood. He then lunged upward and slammed against the wall, head first. Then he stood there in the corner of the room, facing inward, pushing his head hard against the wall like a ram in a vicious training exercize. And the thoughts he had were so vulgar they made him wish he was born dead.

 

This time when he managed to tear himself from the turmoil, it was dark beyond the netted window and his phone was lit with Roy Moynihan's latest tweet.

 

There's going to be one less heart-breaker dreaming tonight.

Dan knew exactly what that meant. Considering the origins of Roy Moynihan �" whatever that was �" anything was possible, and now this tragic anomaly threatened Lauren. Without thinking, he went to the kitchen and got the biggest knife he had, then rushed out to the car, both amazed and horrified at how fast things were escalating.

Before setting off, he tried her friend's number, but as expected she didn't answer, so he sent her a text explaining that Lauren was in danger. Soon he was flying along the outskirts of the city at 90 miles an hour toward his ex-girlfriend's house, the butcher knife in the passenger seat glinting in the light of the full moon.

7

The lights were on. Instead of banging on the door dramatically, he tapped on the sitting-room window, and stood back against the hedge on the far side, so she didn't see him. She would never have answered the door if she knew who it was and enough time had passed that he wouldn't be her first suspect.

When she answered the door her face was a mixture of malice, beauty and disbelief. Before she had a chance to slam the door he reached in and elbowed it back. He found her fear offensive.

 

“This is not about us,” he said. She stammered.

 

“Look,” he said, “it's nothing about us being together again, I know that's never going to happen...”

 

Lauren's whole face changed. Dan stepped back from the doorway.

“Just let me talk for 30 seconds and if you still want me to go then I'll go.”

 

He decided that it was still too early to bring up her unforgivable message malfunction.

 

“Go on then,” she said rolling her eyes.

He got three sentences in before the door was slammed in his face. It was then the dramatic banging began. He only stopped when she threatened to call the police.

 

Sooner or later, he thought walking away to his car, one of us will have to call them.

He sat in the dark car for all of ten seconds before he caught a glimpse of a figure dangle and disappear over the back wall. It was so quick, but Dan was certain it was him. Frantic, desperate, he lunged from the car, leaving the door swung open, and sprinted the ten or so metres to the house. Before he could pummel the door again he heard Lauren scream; a terrible high-pitch trill.

 

Instinctively, Dan stepped back and then kicked the door. It wouldn't budge. He tried again. Nothing. There were no more screams, and the silence was worse than any shrieking. On the third hard thud the door gave in and Dan hurried inside.

 

The house smelled of gravy and roast potatoes. The silence of the doorstep was replaced by hard banging noises spread in long intervals, coming from beyond the door in the hallway. Dan ran down and burst into the shining kitchen.

Roy Moynihan looked shocked. He had a knife almost identical to the one Dan was brandishing. Lauren had somehow managed to lock herself inside the downstairs bathroom and Roy had been trying to break down the door.

Without thinking, Dan O'Dowd lunged at Roy Moynihan.

8

Roy bowed slightly to dodge the assailing knife, like he was addressing a Japanese diplomat, so graceful considering the danger, and then flung a fist forward. It smashed against Dan's nose sending spatters of stringy blood high into the air. Much to Roy's surprise, Dan recovered quickly and swung the knife again. This attempt failed also but Dan, fuelled by his high-grade rage, came forward again.

 

It was then that he felt a cold slate of pain enter deep into his belly. He looked down briefly and saw a wide splotch of blood just beneath his bellybutton. As he was glancing down to inspect the damage, Roy lurched forward and stabbed him three more times in quick succession flit flit flit.

 

Dan collapsed to the ground so quickly it was as if some unseen puppeteer above had fallen asleep on the job. There was no pain after that last swift barrage, only tear-filled frustration. He wreathed and rapped the floor with his frail legs. Not even the endorphins of infuriation could make him stand. Roy said something as he turned back toward the bathroom, but Dan couldn't hear. He was too irate to listen, defenceless to the point of madness. And then a mind-altering concept frisked and cleansed his mind, a kind of medicinal intuition.

He had created this beast in a time of incandescent fury so the only way he could destroy Roy Moynihan would be through a moment of incandescent calm. He had forced the storm into being so maybe there was some way to lull the thunder by means of some unseen nature.

 

Roy had returned to booting down the door, one flashing kick at a time. The door was cracked and splintering around the frame. Lauren was wailing openly now, crying for help. The attacker was licking his lips in anticipation of the prize. Incredibly, Dan closed his eyes.

White sparks pulsed in the darkness matching the ebbs of his darting heart. His thoughts changed from erratic spasms of ancient hatred to futuristic bliss, from degrading disharmony to a trance-like understanding of secret experience. After just a few short gulps, all the memories of his hideous rage came flooding through, complete with gory consequences. The intense relaxation sent fourth concepts that would change Dan O'Dowd for good.

He felt like he had been lying, stabbed and contemplating, for a long time. He opened his eyes.

The doctor had one hand in the air, having just clicked his fingers. A truly emotional smile was spread across his face. He had never seen a breakthrough of this magnitude in a single session before. The mumbles and expressions of the patient had told him all there was to know.

 

Dan was shaking, sweating. Tears of cognitive finality, of serene adjustment, streamed down his face.

Dan O'Dowd finally knew how to breath.

End .

 

 

Kealan Coady May 2015

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

You are a amazing and talented writer. I will return tonight and read more of your story. Are you published? Your stories written with a skill pen. Your detailed use of description make the characters and the story take life for the reader. Thank you for sharing the outstanding story.
Coyote

[Roland Petrov]

Awesome! At first I didn't think I'd read it all in one sitting, but it's so compelling that I did. You set this up in a really clever way so that at the end I was surprised. The intro is perfect, and it's what kept me reading. Everyone can relate to anger, and you increase the reader's curiosity about this powerful emotion. Very well done.