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I wouldn’t call it anger.
Anger is a fiery thing; it burns. It scalds. It stings the back of the throat before a rush of vitriolic speech, like bile rising up after the last ill-begotten drink of the night, the one you know you shouldn’t have bothered to have. Anger is passionate, and passion begets action, for better or for worse.
I would call it bitterness.
Bitter, like the taste of an unripe berry upon the tongue. The mind is well aware that the fruit has the potential to be sweet. Teeth have bitten past the skin and into the pale flesh beneath hundreds of times, and by now, one ought to know well when it’s ripe. One ought to know when to reach up and pluck it from the tree, but hunger is a fickle and desperate creature, spawning a demanding need to be fed regardless of the condition of the fruit. Instead of the expected sweetness, there is an unpleasant nectar to flood the mouth. Is it trust, then, that had you pulling the berry too early from its vine, assuming its ripeness wouldn’t matter? Is it instead greed, that you shouldn’t care if it was ripe or unripe, as long as you were fed?
Yes. Bitterness.
If the region’s love and appreciation was the unripe berry, then I was the fool who bit into it in haste. At least I can say that it was done with innocent intentions. I wanted to please. Achieve. Entertain.
But that naivete came with a steep price, extracted from me in the form of hope.
Time passed, and every day, I awoke with a chill that had nothing to do with the cloying tendrils of winter at my window. It seemed to be borne from the depths of my very soul. An acknowledgement, I surmised, that I was fighting alone towards an impossible victory. I alone seemed to see through the smoke and mirrors that everyone else basked in. I alone seemed to be the voice of dissent, falling loosely on deaf ears. I alone was cast to the side for raising a defiant fist when others extended an expectant hand. Unwanted. Unworthy. Uncooperative. Unfit.
At the start, these twisted feelings inside were not even given voice. I couldn’t bear to think of what might happen if they had, fearing reprisals from both seen and unseen sources. I thought myself powerless and faithless, walking into a veritable storm with my head bowed and my mouth sealed shut, repressing the screams that festered within. I believed myself incapable of throwing back the angry, disparaging words of others into their faces, even if I imagined doing exactly that at every turn. My bravery, once an inferno stoked by creativity, was dwindling down to the barest embers, existing as little more than a dim glow that was fading rapidly under the onslaught of a heartless, impersonal blizzard. I needed a reminder. Something to inspire and ignite. Somehow, I needed to speak.
Eventually, I suppose I did. I found my voice, and gave it a melody. I took that melody, and I made it a statement. That statement became the spark which drove me to shake off the clinging frost and break free, whether those who kept a tenuous hold on me liked it or not.
I screamed.
I sang.
I poured every sick emotion into notes and chords, then spun them together until a new web was woven, brighter and keener than the sum of its parts.
And it became a catharsis.
The years spent feeling riddled with anxiety came peeling away, eroded by the strength of righteous defiance, charged by the genuinely good feeling of doing the right thing, and knowing it down to the core.
It was bold, it was reckless, and the repercussions that landed upon my head were heavy...but they did not break me, and they did not break what I stood for.
After all, who has the power to truly break you?
Who, among beast or men, has that power if you do not give it to them? Who can take you apart, piece by piece, if you refuse to give them the opportunity? Who can claim dominion over you if it is your head upon which the crown rests?
The answer is clear, but I will say it once more to remind myself: no one.
Not a single individual. As long as breath is drawn, as long as there is a hint of sweetness beneath the tang of bitterness, as long as there is a will to survive and maintain hope for all, then the spirit cannot be broken. Perhaps it’s still rather naive of me to say so, given the depth of humanity’s hideousness, but for every unripened berry you pick in your rush to eat or in your mistaken trust, there are others ready to be harvested, to bring a spark of joy to your senses for even the barest moment. A long-winded metaphor for good and bad people, maybe, but the sentiment is still the same.
There is still good in this world. There are still people with ears who want to hear the words lingering behind your lips. There is still
love,
deep in the hearts of friends, family, partners, and kindred souls.
All you have to do is remember to look for i--
Piers froze with his fingers hovering over the keys when he heard the door of the apartment swing open, accompanied by the cheerful charm of Raihan’s voice that echoed through the foyer. With haste, he clicked the ‘save’ button upon the upper left-hand corner of the document, then closed it, taking deep, steadying breaths as he stared blankly at the desktop of his computer.
“I’m home!” he heard the dragon-tamer say as his distant footsteps down the hall became steadily less distant, encroaching upon Piers’ quiet with welcome intent. When he appeared in the doorway of their bedroom, Raihan’s beaming smile softened into something more cautious and gentle, though his bright gaze was neither mocking nor pedantic as it roved critically over the musician’s fair features. “What’re you up to, mm? Working on that diary we spoke about?”
Piers nodded, reaching up to tuck an errant lock of untamed hair behind his ear. “Aye. The shrink really thinks it’ll help if I get some o’ my thoughts out an’ on paper, so...that’s what I’m doin’. Guess it’s a little bit self-servin’, some o’ this shite, but--”
“Isn’t that what it’s supposed to be?” Raihan asked, lifting an incredulous brow. He crossed the room in a few short strides, coming to rest against the back of the plush computer chair. He settled both of his large hands upon Piers’ shoulders, and the musician sank into their touch, endlessly grateful for their perpetual, comforting warmth. Seeking clarification, he tilted his head back to regard his lover, offering up an expression that displayed his slight confusion. Raihan only continued to smile, idly brushing his fingertips over the rise of Piers’ prominent collarbone.
He added, “The whole point of this is to become a bit more comfortable with who you are and where you’ve been. So what if it’s self-serving? If it’s helping you, if
you
are finding value in it, then fuck the rest. It’s not about anyone else, love. It’s about
you,
and for once, you don’t have to scream it into a microphone for all of Galar to pick apart at will.”
The notion brought a tentative smile to Piers’ pale lips. Gently, he set his head against Raihan’s forearm, nuzzling into the fabric of his hoodie. Today, he smelled of rainwater and dirt; a practice battle with weather techniques, then. By now, he was more than accustomed to identifying the taller man’s daily tasks by how he smelled when he returned home. It was a strange little detail, Piers thought idly, but the knowledge came with a certain warmth that made his heart jump.
“What if I
want
to scream it into a microphone fer all o’ Galar to hear?” he returned, allowing himself a smirk when he caught the hint of mischief in Raihan’s aqua stare, “Maybe I want ‘em all to listen to me croonin’ about my sad days and the shite with Rose. Maybe it’ll be my next fuckin’ album. Whaddaya think, luv?”
Raihan only chuckled, deep and affectionate. In lieu of an immediate response, he bowed his head and planted a kiss atop Piers’ scalp, amidst the mess of his unstyled mane. The grip of his hands tightened slightly.
When he spoke, his deep voice carried the weight of love and sentiment behind it:
“Then, as always, I’ll be there to listen.”