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  • Writer's pictureLoveday Funck

The Rage Cycle

As someone who has witnessed far too many of these adult-style temper tantrums, a rage cycle appears terrifying. The best thing to do is to get as far away from the rage as possible.

Someone in the throes of this will throw things, break things, and lash out. Try not to be in range.

If you witness this from someone in your life, take it as the red flag it is and get away and get out as soon as you possibly can!


In the twilight hush of a forgotten attic, dust motes danced in the slivers of moonlight that speared through grime-coated windows. There, amidst cobwebbed trunks and chipped porcelain dolls, sat a child, no older than five, his face contorted in a mask of fury. His fists hammered against the oak floor, sending tremors through the skeletal frame of the house.

But the child was not alone. Beside him, a towering shadow pulsed, a reflection of his rage amplified a thousandfold. This was no mere silhouette, but a living entity, its form shifting and swirling like smoke, mirroring the child's every contortion, every scream. It was the child's anger, given monstrous form, its eyes burning embers that echoed the volcanic glow emanating from the artwork adorning the attic wall.

The painting, a chaotic swirl of reds and oranges, depicted a city consumed by flames, its inhabitants writhing in agony. The child, oblivious to the chilling scene, continued his tantrum. A dropped toy, a denied wish, the source of his ire lost in the primal roar of his emotions.

With each scream, the monstrous shadow grew, its tendrils reaching towards the artwork, its fiery eyes reflecting the city's growing inferno. The child, lost in the throes of his outburst, didn't notice the heat creeping closer, the whispers of the flames licking at the edges of his vision.

Suddenly, a hand, cool and gentle, settled on his shoulder. The child looked up, his rage momentarily quelled by the touch. A woman stood before him, her eyes filled with sadness and understanding. She wasn't an adult, not in the conventional sense. Her form shimmered, a figment of moonlight and memory, the echo of a mother long gone.

"My love," she whispered, her voice a soothing balm, "the fire rages within you, but it need not consume all."

The child, his eyes flickering between the woman and the monstrous shadow, felt a flicker of doubt in his heart. The tantrum, the fury, suddenly felt hollow, a performance without an audience.

The woman knelt, her touch a calming presence. "Anger is a storm, little one," she said, "but within the storm lies the seed of understanding. Let the rain wash away the hurt, let the wind carry away the pain."

As she spoke, the monstrous shadow began to shrink, its fiery tendrils retracting, the city in the painting calming, the flames receding. The child, his anger subsiding, felt a tear roll down his cheek. The woman smiled, a sad, knowing smile.

"Remember, my love," she said, her voice fading with the moonlight, "the fire within you can be a beacon, not a pyre. Choose wisely how you let it burn."

With a final touch, the woman vanished, leaving the child alone in the attic, the embers of his anger replaced by a quiet contemplation. He looked at the painting, no longer a scene of destruction, but a reminder of the power he held within. He stood up, no longer a toddler throwing a tantrum, but a child learning to navigate the storms within, the echo of love guiding him through the darkness.

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