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IS IT HEALTHY to be so angry? Veins popping out of the sides of someone's neck or the front of their forehead, trembling hands, flared noses—is that the human experience? Anger has the same coat of red blood does. That must mean something, right? Blood equals life, so rage must equal... something.
Does it equal life? Primrose Black has come to this conclusion:
Yes, it does.
Anger is a part of the human experience. Absolute loathing, putrid hate that laces words with venom encapsulate it all. Of course, it varies, like most things do. Men get angry and get called normal. Women get angry and get called emotional. Primrose has resolved to the fact that notion may never change.
Besides the obvious double standards, anger is still inherent in everyone. Primrose Black carries the anger of thousands of women, prohibited by institutions and men from becoming capable for so long. She carries the anger of all the schoolgirls, brushing past the quips about their bodies and the way they dress. She carries the anger of all the young adults who suddenly remember the day their parents clipped their wings, left them out for dead.
Mostly, however, Primrose Black carries the anger of every little girl who would watch their parents smother their other child in kisses and lather them in love. She carries the anger of remembering the day she discovered the pencil marks in her parents closet of Oliver's varying heights. (Her name was nowhere to be found.) Primrose remembers sitting upon her bed, counting the lines on her frail hands. They matched her father's. Why could he not love her?
There is an anger bubbling inside of her. It is juvenile and carnivorous. Her sense of youth is on the prowl, fueled by broken promises, on the prowl for victims.
Her family is in the other cell block.
Primrose Black can't smell the difference between anger and blood. They both smell... red.
━━━━━━━✿━━━━━━━
"ITSY BITSY SPIDER, went up the water spout. Down came the rain and...what the fuck is the next verse?"
