The wild beast in him fumbles. Silence. All around, the air is charged with electric voltage. Nothing is moving. This is exactly what we call calm before the storm. He sees red. Turns to his punching bag. The first blow leaves. Direct. Impact. The wall is trembling. He withdrew his arm as one takes out his hand from the fire. He blows. His fingers unfold. He feels the pain go up in his nerves. Well sent! Pressure relief.
He hops in place, relaxes his shoulders, dies in rhythm. His right hook fuse, immediately followed by the left to keep the punching bag in place. Shit day. Damn shit day! Isn’t it enough to work like an asshole to pay taxes, bills, food, gas, pay to drive, park, pay to pee?
Direct right jab, left hook, jab again, jab, jab, JAB! The knuckles of his fingers begin to burn. It relieves. He feels powerful again. Again!
He no longer sees anything. He can’t hear anything anymore. There is only the point of impact that exists. Uppercut. Shit life. Shit job. Shit colleagues! A bunch of fagots who swamps by bending their backs under the orders of this cone! The blows are raining faster and faster. The target takes the surge of rage without flinching. Hit the wall with a dull noise.
No choice. Must work. But here, tonight, he’s the boss! It’s already getting better. He swings his bloody fists a few more times and then stops, out of breath. The punching bag flickers before sagging on the ground. Thud. The man suddenly comes to his senses. Tap his wife’s inert body with his foot.
Damn, he still didn’t kill her?
