I clenched my fists and buried my rage.
It had been buried, had been buried for years. Some of it had probably been around since my older brother dropped me when I was two or my mother had scolded me back when I had decided it would be fun to draw on the walls. But I was the good girl. The quiet girl. The good, quiet girl never fought back, never had a temper tantrum. The good, quiet girl couldn't show emotion at all. And so it had been buried.
At school they had all thought I was weird. The weird, quiet girl. The teachers promised my mother and father it was just a phase, that I would grow out of it. I would talk one day. But years passed, elementary, middle, high school. I still didn't say a word. The weird, quiet girl couldn't ever say a word. If talking was good, why did the teachers always yell at you to be quiet? It was buried.
And then came the last straw. It had been shining on above me, a promise just waiting to be fulfilled as the weird, quiet girl tripped her way through school. I was going to be accepted, it was no question. Because I was the smart girl. The quiet girl. Except colleges only like loud girls, ambitious girls. They didn't care that I was smart. They cared that I didn't talk, that I didn't to anything. They left me. A cloud came and it didn't shine anymore. So it wouldn't be buried anymore.
I had spoken. I had screamed. Every word that I had wanted to say but couldn't came pouring from my mouth in an obscene heap, caking the floor just like their blood. I felt free. For once in my life, the quiet girl was no more. But it's hard to cover up a massacre when the bodies and weapon are covered in your fingerprints. Now that I was the quiet girl again, they took advantage of me. Locked me up like a criminal. But it's okay.
I'll just clench my fists and bury my rage.