Page 88 of Such Sharp Teeth

A man appears behind the counter. He has us read and sign the forms, gives us a little speech about how it works, then hands us the jumpsuits and goggles to put on. We finish off our looks with plastic face shields. Ian selects the baseball bat, leaving me to choose between a golf club and sledgehammer. I go sledgehammer.

“Those are heavy,” the man says. “Women have a better time with the golf club.”

I don’t bother to respond, just can’t help but laugh.

“She’s good,” Ian says.

“Okay, then,” the man says, opening the door to the warehouse. “Have fun.”

I wander out through the rubble. I climb on top of one of the cars, a rusty decades-old Toyota. I lift my sledgehammer up high over my head, and in a swift, efficient movement, I smash it through the windshield. The hair on the back of my neck pricks up. I take off the side mirror with a lazy swing.

I hop down and open the driver’s-side door. I kick it once to get it loose, then again to take it clean off. It slides across the floor to Ian’s feet.

I feel him watching me. His attention doesn’t deter me. I tighten my grip on the handle of the sledgehammer. I hold it in both hands and listen to the sing of my blood. Then I spin around and obliterate the headlights.

I won’t stop until it’s nothing. I want it to be nothing. I want to destroy it. Pick it up and throw it across the room.

I could.

I could crush it with my bare hands. I’m strong enough.

The violence has me salivating. When given the opportunity to rage, I will rage.

“Rory?”

Ian crosses behind me, baseball bat over his shoulder.

I come back to myself. “Sorry. I got carried away.”

He shrugs. “That’s why we’re here. You want help? Or you want to finish this off yourself?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say.

“I think I’m gonna go for the Christmas tree,” he says, pointing toward the tree behind a mountain of VCRs.

“Go for it.”

I can’t picture him destroying anything. He’s six five; he’s a big guy. He could do some damage if he wanted to. But there’s no belligerence in him, no trace of aggression in how he carries himself.

I watch him bat at one of the ornaments, sending it into the wall with a satisfying crunch. He does it again. He’s methodical in his demolition of the ornaments. The way he goes about it, it’s almost merciful.

It’s endearing.

“Yeah, fuck Christmas,” I shout.

“I actually like Christmas,” he says.

“I can tell.”

His laugh echoes through the space.

I feel my pulse slow as I approach him, the rage swell subsiding. I take a few deep breaths to calm down, to ease myself out of it.

These rabid spells, like just now and with Matty, these moments that escape me, where I get hostile and power drunk, I need to find a way to curb them. I need an anchor, something to tether me to myself. Right now it’s him.

It’s watching him bat these tacky Christmas ornaments into the wall.

“You want a go?” he asks, offering up the tree.