tess. d1. fin.

anger is a blade—

serrated & deadly,
an echo of agony.

i was taught to consume my temper, to nourish my body with rage. i am an ouroboros, a constant cycle of feasting on and devouring myself. my anger is a lit match; gasoline blood ignites a wildfire soul, my raw and unbridled fists the deliverer of it all.

i do not know temperance.

The academy became an echo chamber of my youth. In each crack of a bone beneath a strike, I would hear his voice. It's imposing and militant, like a clenched fist. He'd chide my form, recall one of his lessons and force me to break it again. And again, and again. I'd be there for hours, night would bleed into the watercolor sunset. Blood on my knuckles, muscles aching and tender, sweat slick on my pale skin until he spun on his heel and left, satisfied?

Praise was foreign and alien-like. I remember chasing it when I was a girl, young and wide-eyed with a furrowed brow because I wanted to mirror my father. But I found it to be evasive, like a little fly buzzing and buzzing, flitting across the room the moment you get close. Too much of a blur to catch. But I remembered his teachings too, I knew to choke down the pain and let it settle in my stomach. I became stronger for it.

So, it was a strange thing to have the instructors view me as a trophy. Gold and gleaming, like I was something to be coveted. An apotheosis of the perfect career, a deadly darling. Lithe and lean, cunning and ruthless. A girl made of steel. I'd be in the ring for round after round, never faltering, painting skin constellations of black and blue, and they'd stand on the sidelines smiling. They'd clasp my shoulders, shake them slightly and drawl out exaggerations about how well I performed. I'd roll my eyes and throw a half-real, half-broken smile back, but it was nice. Having seeds of belief blossom in someone's chest.

Demon had one planted in his core, too.

In the beginning, at least.

The boys in our shared academy class were carbon copies of the next, their words only an echo of someone else. He wasn't unlike them. Same ardent glaze over their eyes, tripping over their own feet to prove themselves. So desperately eager. But, I understood that. There's a certain pressure mounted on your shoulders the moment you're born in One, and nobody wants to be the child that collapses a legacy.

But there was a ravening thing in Demon's chest that I recognized. That pulled with a crooked finger on my heart, enticing me. It was a simple thing, just a spark of passion, but it lasted. I liked having someone on my arm and he liked the feeling of being together. And a part of him was afraid of me, knowing that I was a firecracker with a fuse waiting to be lit, but he was always too thick with proud to admit that. All the boys were.

The years weren't kind to him, either.

I remained at the top of the class or hovered around the highest position, but he began to fall, cracks forming on his skin from the tension. He was pulled apart from the inside out, tendons stretching and tearing from his joints. It started with his mind. And then in it was over in a fleeting, flicker of a moment. He called it off, stormed out, and became someone else entirely. One of those kids who wander a void, just drifting, devoid of a purpose.

Somewhere in me, something broke. Shattered into a million tiny pieces, slicing up my insides and making me bleed. I wanted to scream, form my hand in a fist and mark his face with my rage. I guess I became too comfortable in my contentedness.

I could hear my father in my ear, scolding me. Reminding me of his teachings, it was always that. But Demon taught me a lesson my father didn't: love is rage. It's passion. And I am a devourer.