In a pestilential dusk, the scratchy moth-eaten hills forming a scraggly boundary to the eye-frame, in the silence of the lustful crickets and the raw power of anger, she sat. She dug her fingernails into her scalp and willed the pain to come. None did. She saw a copper haze instead, a haze that curtained down from the blemishless sky… a haze that turned the moon green and the scraggly hills yellow and the ground purple. "O'er the purple moor," she thought, a spider of a memory running zigzag across the cobwebs in her head. And the old anger was there… the ancient anger burnt the stray spider and turned into a tunnel of ash.
She knew she didn't, couldn't, wouldn't, mustn't, shan't, won't, can't, daren't own him. She knew he didn't, couldn't, wouldn't, mustn't, shan't, won't, can't, daren't love her. He was that burnt stray spider in her life, an accident not waiting to happen, a snort that escapes from a sudden consuming laugh, the spittle that explodes from a beguiling mouth. He was love and lust and power and personality and escape and promise and meaning and wistfulness and absentmindedness and wrath and desire and calmness and storm all at once. She was revolted by him, drawn by him and was possessed by a desire to own him. But she didn't, couldn't, wouldn't, musn't, shan't, won't, can't, daren't own him. And she knew that. So she stilled her dangerous mind and sharpened her intellect.
He lived in the shadows of her body – always there, poisoning her blood and making her mind scream in anguish. She dug her fingernails into her scalp as her furious mind took wing, spurred on by a consuming anger. Her anger took form and poured out of her being and took the shape of a one-eyed bird. And she watched as the damaged bird persevered and merged into the sky. And then she slept the sleep of the not-yet-dead but the never-waking. She stalked her anger in her dreams and laughed soundlessly and uncontrollably as her bird of fury pecked his eyes out. And those lips that had smiled once for her, the eyes that had flitted around and the nose that flared up at the slightest humour – she watched dispassionately as the bird turned them into a mangled bloody curdled mess of tissue. That was when she started to scream.
Scream, she did, for 33 days. Her body and mind, soul and spirit screamed as one. She screamed and she screamed and she screamed some more for her mangled love, the debilitating fear and the destroying anger. She screamed for her lost mind, for her dreams-in-tatters and for the return of her resolute strength. And just as suddenly, she stopped.
She was drained. She was cold. She was hungry. She was in pain. She was inconsolable. She was unhappy. She was piteous. She was remorseful. She was dying. She was still in love. But she was never angry again.