| Thud. Eerily the single bulb hanging down from the ceiling lit the scene. The chalky white presence of the asbestos-coated furnace and heating pipes stood out from the black coal-dust that coated every inch of the basement. An old wooden door was propped against the wall, an open closet to either side. The door shuddered with each blow of the knife. An occasional muffled sound broke the silence, it was difficult to tell whether the boy had sobbed or cursed. Thud. The hanging bulb swung in lazy circles, occasionally brushed as the boy paced between the throwing line and the old door that served as a target. Shadows silently shifted on the walls, dancing in response to the bulb's movements. The shaft of the knife gleamed as it spun through the shadows. Most throws struck the panel solidly, others hit the wood butt-first and caromed off. On some throws the wood caught the tip of the blade briefly, then flipped the knife hazardously back at the boy. Throw -- Retrieve -- Throw again. Thud. Time passed. Throw -- Retrieve -- Throw again. C R A C K ! The sharp sound brought Steve out of his trance. The last impact of the knife had split the door into two sections. The point of the knife held for a moment, then the haft slowly slid downward, pulling the blade to the floor. It took a moment for Steve to realize what had happened. Slowly he approached the door and examined the split. The repeated thrusts of the knife had dug away at the wood, particularly down the middle of the panel where most of the throws had landed. Splinters of wood and fragments of old paint lie scattered on the floor. The assault had been too severe, too harsh for the door to withstand and it had finally split down the middle. Steve reached up to touch the crack in the wood and winced with pain. The muscles in this right bicep and shoulder screamed with pain as he attempted to lift his arm. Absent-mindedly, he rubbed the sore muscles as he came out of his daze. Scooping up the fallen knife with his left hand, Steve glanced at his wrist watch and was amazed to see that more than two hours had passed since he had stormed into the basement. Giving his head a shake to clear the remaining cobwebs, the boy slowly looked around the dirty, dusty room. His anger was spent. In truth, it was difficult to comprehend how the telephone call could have caused him to so totally lose control. It was a dark side of him that he had never before experienced, and he knew that he must prevent himself from so completely losing control ever again. However -- The rage had done its job. The anger was spent, the emotional pain was gone. Leaving the basement, the boy turned for a final look at the damaged door, ruefully shook his head, determined to forget . . . * * * * * . . . Thirty years later, the man read what he had written, ruefully shook his head. . . and remembered. |
| The Rage (final) |
| SPEAK EASY Inc. - Canada's Organization For People Who Stutter - presents: |
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