I am still, still mad. My anger continues to burn hot, like the inside of a forgotten and slowly darkening sun. Sometimes, I think I am no longer mad, then something reminds me that I am mad. When I wake up in the morning, I'm mad. When I drive to work, i'm mad. As I stand in my place of employment, smiling to customers and joking with co-workers, secretly I am mad. When I go home and hold my baby boy, who I love very much, I am mad. As I prepare dinner alongside my beautiful wife, I am mad.
When I lay down in bed, I am still mad. When I make love to my wife, I am mad, plunging into her with the unsated fury of a man wronged. She loves it, and thinks it's the new lingerie she bought - but actually, I am mad.
When I talk to my therapist, I am mad. I can tell he fears me. He does not understand the purity of my anger, how it can burn white hot for so long, behind a veneer of civility and social adeptness. I look at him, and I tell him: I know I shouldn't be, but I am mad.
As I age, I will still be mad. My fury will condense into my skeletal structure, bleaching it black with the hatred and bile I keep sealed inside of me, secrets I must never unleash lest it destroy everyone I love. All will wonder what disease it is that causes me to waste away to an early grave, and no doctor will cure me. And when I finally die, all of my bound up odium will unleash itself, causing my body to burst into flames and erupt into a geyser of acidic blood, laying waste to all the unfortunates who stand nearby my hospital bed. And from the gaping maw of my opened chest cavity, I will throw open a portal from whatever blighted hell dimension my soul has traveled to with the sheer power of my mad. And as I stride forth, slicked crimson with my own blood, born anew to rain calamity and woe on this world I once loved, seven horns shall trumpet and seven seals will break. And as my wings and serpentine heads tear forth from my shoulders and back, I will scream, "I'M STILL MAD."