Angry

Lila Fitri Aly

I look at my face in the pocket mirror and try to smile very, very sweetly. I would like to show the smile of a motherly woman, a sincere smile, not one of slyness or envy.

I pull my lips slightly up and make sure that my gaze will reflect happiness. When I smile, I want not only my lips, but also my gaze and my dimples, to look sweet. Who doesn't like a face bearing a sweet smile?

Suddenly, I throw away the mirror. Even before I look at myself smiling, I shout angrily. Oh no, I can't do it. All my muscles, my brain and my heart are filled with a fury that drowns my whole self. I shout furiously like a wounded tiger whose cub has been shot dead. How can I smile when fury overwhelms me?

I take the broken mirror and look at my face in a broken part of the mirror. Oh, no! I do not see the sweet smile. Where are my dimples and my shiny gaze?

I can see in the broken part of the mirror only a horrible face with eyes open wide. My lips do not form a sweet smile; instead, they form a grin, showing my fang-like teeth. My face is transformed into a ghastly mask.

My hair, actually straight and beautiful, has become disheveled. The veins in my temples are visible and throbbing like wriggling worms.

What has happened to me? A host of questions fill my muddled head. Why have I become very angry? Why can't I control myself? Who has caused this fury? Where is this person? Who is this? The face is not clear in my mind's eyes. So many people have angered me but I can't tell you who they are, one by one.

Were I male, I would go to a field, kick a ball as hard as I could and run after it, shouting as loudly as I could. Or, I would hit a punching bag to my heart's content. I would even kick it or hit it with my head until I could vent all my anger.

I would clench my fist very tightly as if I were a boxer going into the ring. I would like to be a tiger and would be ready to tear anything with my sharp paws. I feel as if my body turned into the Hulk, the green giant in the comic strips.

Why is it very difficult for a woman to vent her anger? Can't a woman express her feelings? Tradition always has it that a woman is the fair sex, full of gentleness, a motherly creature with an abundance of loving kindness. It deprives a woman of the right to show how she feels when she is angry.

Must a woman always be able to keep her anger to herself, or must she always cry out of annoyance or simply grumble about nothing in particular? Can't a woman vent her anger? That's why some people believe that a woman can kill because of her weakness. This weakness has instead turned into a very powerful strength!

I can die because of this pent-up anger. I want to slap, punch, kick and hit anybody that has made me furious. If necessary, I can kill this person. I am very sad. I have become so sad that at the climax of my anger, I sob and sob, just because I cannot vent my feelings.

Why wasn't I born a male? Then I would not need to keep my anger to myself as I could express it any time. Why is it always considered taboo for a woman to vent her anger physically? My body is in pain; my anger has come back and hit me.

Well, I can always smash plates and glasses on the floor. Phooh, isn't it characteristic of angry women to simply throw plates and glasses to the floor? But, no, haven't I bought them on credit? I would have to continue to pay the installments even if the plates and the glasses were broken.

And my neighbors would be sure to hear and wonder what is wrong.

The wall: Ah yes, the wall is made of concrete and is stronger than a punching bag. I clench my fists. If I hit the wall hard, well, my hand will be broken. I try to hit the wall, but not strongly. It is very painful.

I don't think a man can bear the pain that comes after hitting the wall. What must I do now? Get out of the house? Hmmm, I dare not leave the house while still furious. I'm afraid that I will not be patient enough to go down through the stairs from the third wall. I may just jump to the ground floor.

I shout angrily again. I go round my small house. In a matter of seconds I return to my bedroom. I hit my pillow and my mattress to my heart's content. Dust flies everywhere, making me cough. I think I'm strong enough to destroy the pillow and the mattress with my bare hands. The harder I hit at them, the more torn they become and the cotton inside flies everywhere. Furious, I leave my messy bedroom.

I walk into the bathroom. A pile of clothes awaits me. I haven't washed them for a week. I fling them into a pail filled with water and then I put some detergent into the water. I have a washing machine but I don't use it now. I want to use my washing board.

I take a piece of clothing. I squeeze it and then rub it against the washing board very hard. I use every ounce of my energy. The board moves right and left, forward and backward, following the rhythm of the angry movement of my two hands. I don't care.

My teeth are also moving to the tune of the rhythm of my angry hands. Also my gums. Blood flows faster and my heart is beating harder. I feel my chest rise and fall. My eyes are open wide and are almost jumping out. The muscles of my arms and legs become very tense and taut.

As I can no longer bear my anger, my body shivers. I am so angry I am sure I will burst and blood will spurt out. My body will be broken into smithereens as if I had been caught in an explosion.

I finish smoking five of my favorite clove-flavored cigarettes. I stop washing as my washing board breaks into pieces. All the clothes I wash are torn into pieces as well. I kick the broken parts of the washing board and then leave the torn clothes behind. I don't care any more.

I go to the kitchen, which is next to my bathroom. I open the fridge and take a piece of beef. I chew it as hard as I can. In my imagination, I am chewing the heads of those that have made me furious. I want to chew them up and spit them out. Kill them.

I want to skin them alive and hang up their heads in the doorway, like what the cannibal tribes did in the days of yore. I would pull out the teeth and turn them into necklaces, earrings or bracelets. I would also put a tooth on my ring as a keepsake.

And the eyes? I could use them as pendants.

I take as many red chilis as possible. I usually blend these peppers with tomatoes and shallots to make my favorite paste of hot red peppers. Usually my mouth waters at the sight of this paste but this time I am drooling from my great anger.

My lips move as if saying something; in fact, there are too many things that I want to say. Well, a million swear words are ready at the tip of my tongue. But who will hear my angry words. I am alone. I don't say anything but my gums and my teeth move in anger.

I don't use my blender but instead a mortar and a pestle. I grind the peppers, the tomatoes and the shallots until they become a paste. Still, I wield the pestle for grinding -- back and forth, back and forth -- and when the hot paste suddenly jumps into my eyes, my clothes and the wall, the handle of the pestle breaks.

Red is everywhere. Blood red? Burning bright red? Maroon red? or the pinky red of a Barbie?

My palm hurts. It is covered with blood. I realize I have ground my own hand. By reflex, to alleviate the pain and put a stop to the bleeding, I press my hand against the wall.

Suddenly I realize I am sitting in front of my computer. Wildly, my fingers press on the keyboard. As if possessed, I let my fingers grip the keys. I don't know what I am writing.

Blood oozes from my fingers and the keyboard becomes red. As if drawn by a magnet, my fingers cannot be prised from the keyboard. I try to pull my fingers but the harder I try, the stronger the fingers are stuck to these keys. I feel an extraordinary sensation.

I slow down the rhythm of the my fingers' pressure and then I quicken the rhythm in a way full of desire. I repeat this again and again; slow, fast, slow, fast.

I shout out loud. I feel an extraordinary satisfaction, like a thundering orgasm.

Vaguely I look at the monitor of the computer. Slowly emerging is a grinning, delirious, glowering face, like that of a devil. I look again. Is that really my face?