red is the color of anger

Joan was angry. God, she was so angry all the time. Angry at her teachers; angry at her parents; angry at the people who only wanted the best for her and, most of all, angry at the world. 

Her anger wasn’t all hers; it had once been a fourteen-year-old girl who tried to be just right. Joan had tried to be just right. She had been polite, had shut her mouth when all she wanted was to scream and plastered on a smile, etching it upon her face like a seamstress. Her frustration had turned to grief and her grief had turned to anger, the way all things did if you pushed them down too far — anger in the form of a seventeen-year-old teenage girl with puffy eyes and the tendency to be mean to the people she loved. It sat in her chest in the place that once held her lifeline, bounded by the strings that had cradled her heart a long time ago, demanding to be felt and seen and heard. 

Still, at seventeen years old, when Joan felt as though she was all anger, she tried to change. Soften up, forgive instead of ignore, relax her hands that were always clenched into fists — It didn’t work. 

Now all Joan could feel was her heart gripped in cold claws; rage cradling her in soft hands. It was all she could be or so it felt; after all, where could she put it? 

“Lay it on me.”, a soft voice whispered, gentle hands cradling her face, light fingers tending to her bruised knuckles. Joan tried to pull her body away, but Tilly’s hands wrapped around her wrists and calmly pulled her back again. 

“Tilly, please…”, Joan begged silently, hot tears brimming in her eyes. It was only a matter of time until Joan hurt Tilly too, and she couldn’t let that happen. Not ever. Couldn’t Tilly see that?

“No, Joanie.”, Tilly’s voice was still soft but the determination palpable, “Be angry at me all you want, I’m not leaving.”

Joan had never wanted anyone to see her like that; with her hands clenched up into fists, hitting the walls of her room rapidly, the skin around her knuckles cracking and blood splattering on the white wallpaper. When Tilly had walked, halting in her steps, gasping, Joan had expected her to turn around and leave, but not Tilly — Tilly had taken her hands in hers and moved her to the bathroom, not an ounce of judgement in her movements; just concern.