I paint my nails vermilion. My hands appear to be dripping blood. Good. It makes me feel dangerous. I want to scorch the earth with my rage.

The howling wind abets my murderous mood. I growl at the homeless man who relies on the condescending coins I toss at him. I bark at the barista ‒ today I take my coffee strong and black, adding bile to the fire in my belly.

Kevin, inside his glass office, is oblivious of my presence.

“Liar, cheat, degenerate!”

My red-tipped hand lands a hard slap leaving a scarlet mark of shame on him.