Day 4 was meant to go really well. I’d had such a good week at the china shop, and profits were up significantly. I’d made enough to bring in some fresh inventory, and we’d launched a new advertising campaign and it was really seeing the customers come in. The store was looking packed with excellent items, and I was rarely serving fewer than two customers at once. They were paying huge prices! I couldn’t have been more delighted. Honestly, it was like the rage had never been a problem.
Then I clipped a shelf.
It’s my damned arms. They’re what got me into trouble in the first place, what always get me in trouble. They’re just slightly bigger than I know what to do with, and with my dyspraxia, sometimes when I turn around I lose track of how close I am to something. Things get knocked over. I just get so mad at myself! If I just slow down, calm myself, and think straight, it’s fine. But when I break something I feel so guilty, I feel so worthless, and I just start to see red.
I don’t see why it should happen to me. I never did anything wrong. I’ve been a decent minotaur – I never asked to be this way. It’s my pervert mother’s fault. That FREAK. What was she even thinking? I mean, seriously. And then my bastard father puts me in a labyrinth because he doesn’t have any parenting skills.
My counsellor says it’s healthy to express my feelings of anger toward my fucked up parents, that I should let it out. SO I’M JUST LETTING IT OUT, OKAY? What’s so damned wrong with that? Why don’t those stupid security guards try being the offspring of a bloody wooden cow, and see exactly how calm they stay? With their fucking arrows, they can all just FUCK OFF. I FUCKING HATE THEM ALL. THEY JUST NEED TO BE SMASHED UP.
After that I don’t really remember very much. Apart from the anger. Still, good job I got that insurance.