The red of your anger is the color of blood. It courses angrily through your engorged veins, but you hide it well; it shows only in the tiny twitching of your jaw. Your deep chocolate eyes casually take in the room, noting possible weapons. Only blunt objects here: a desk lamp and a paper weight. It seems the knives are in the other room.
Break the window, you think to yourself, maybe I'll be lucky and get sharp shards. After all, the payment you're after is agonizing, lasting pain.
Like the blacksmith's iron rod in flames, your wrath burns hotter. Anger turn to fury soon, from vivid orange to citrus yellow, stopping finally on blinding white. The blood now pounds in your ears like his hammer on anvil, threatening to burst your skull. But in your wrath you ignore the sound and continue to feed the inner outrage. You appear stoic but revel in the thought of the aggressor's vital fluid spilling to the ground. Your mind's eye watches as the carpet drinks it slowly and the eyes of your opponent flit, nearly lifeless, from side to side.
Furrowing your brow, you sit and manage to clear the satisfying image from your head. Karma's a bitch, you know, and you hope she's taken note to act on your behalf.
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