642 Things – The Eruption

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     The anger coursed through her body, the hurt, the pain, the raw, agonising, unending fury. Every nerve alight, every vein on fire. She was a volcano, set to blow at any second – if she were a cartoon character, steam would be pouring from her ears. Her fists clenched and unclenched, her jaw set into a hard line, her brow furrowed deep.

     She paused, just for a split second. The last corner of her brain that was still thinking rationally tried to make one last plea, a final attempt to remain calm. But it quashed instantly by the fury, the rage sweeping through and taking control of her body.

     She burst through the school doors, striding down the hallway with determined strides. She moved without thinking. First the posters, with their bright colours and cheery messages, ruthlessly stripped from the walls and torn to shreds as fast as her hands could manage. Then a rubbish bin, waiting harmlessly in a corner, violently kicked over, spilling papers and wrappers and even a puddle of some unknown liquid all over the shiny linoleum floors.

    Her eyes saw the shocked faces of her fellow students, which only fuelled her rage further, as stormed through them, forcibly pulling books and papers out of their arms as she went, shoving past those who didn’t move out of her path quickly enough.

     Something bright caught her attention, momentarily distracting her from her blind rampage; the trophy case, full of awards and cups and framed photos, markers of success and triumph, all carefully presented behind the glass casing. The glass casing that proved to be no match for her chunky, high heeled boots, as she smashed her foot into it. The sound of the glass breaking echoed down the halls, as the other students watched in silence, while the shards scattered over the floor, and she swiftly began pulling the items from the case, hurling them over her shoulders with an incredible amount of force.

     Half a dozen items in, she seemed to tire of this exercise or perhaps remember her initial goal, and whirled away from the case, to continue marching down the hall, pausing only to rip down another poster or knock another book out someone’s arms.

     She stopped in front of a door, leading to the room she’d been aiming for this whole time. Stopped only for a fraction of a second, enough time to grab the handle and yank it open, before bursting into the room. She briefly registered the startled face of the teacher, but her gaze lingered there for no time at all before she turned to the rest of the room, scanning for one face in particular.

     There. There she was. With her perfectly done makeup and perfectly styled hair. With her designer bag perfectly slung over the chair, and designer shoes visible under the table, on her perfectly crossed feet. With her perfectly organised notebook and stationary and perfectly coordinated outfit. With a perfectly terrified look on her face.

     She threw herself across the room, making a beeline for this other girl, hurtling past the other desks on the way, letting out an inhumane sounding snarl as she went. She sunk one hand deep into the girl’s hair and pulled, hard, eliciting a highly satisfying scream of pain. Her nails scratched down her face, smearing the makeup and leaving angry red lines in their wake. Her hand curled into a fist again, and she sunk a blow into the other girl’s stomach, leaving her doubled over and sinking to the ground. She leapt on top of her, landing another blow, this time one that would leave a bruise on that pretty face.

     To her credit, the other girl didn’t accept this lying down. She lunged up again, hands reaching out to pull and scratch and punch right back, dishing back as much as she got. The two wrestled on the floor, screaming and yelling, as clothes were torn and skin was ripped. Hair came out in clumps, and blood began to drip. Kicks landed on legs and heads were slammed into the floor, and both were entirely deaf to the protests and shrieks from the others in the room.

     Only when strong arms pulled them apart, despite their futile attempts to yank themselves away and continue attacking each other, did it end. Both were left bruised and bloodied, clothes and hair in disarray, panting for breath, and red from anger and exertion, as they were forcibly hauled from the room. The fight might have been over, but that anger wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

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