Rage. Fury. Wrath.
"It's bad to be angry", they said." You're scary when you're angry" they croaked. "Rage does not suit that pretty face" they mocked. Their faces were quite a picture, when she burst out in fury. Looking back 'twas quite funny. But she hated it. Made her feel like a monster. So she stifled her rage, locked it up behind giant doors, like rapunzel in her little palace. She rarely visited, afraid it would somehow find it's way back in her life.
Years passed. Her success was admirable. Except for little instances anger was kept well in check. The little dude was never taken out to play. Little did she know, that instead of killing him she was giving him food. It grew like fire when given wood. The little dude was not so little anymore. Slowly it started to spread, around the door, tweaking at the bolts trying to find a crack, an imperfection.
And it did. She was weak and ever the opportunist, it thrust forward, creating bigger cracks in the magnificent door. And it finally broke it down. It grew and spread like cancerogenous cells. After years of being bottled up it enjoyed it's new found freedom.
And her? She was tired. Tired of fighting it off. Tired of keeping all inside. But afraid. Afraid of what they would say. Afraid that they would mock. Afraid that this time instead of scared faces she'll get their backs as they leave. Not caring enough to stay and ask why. Letting her be consumed by this wrath, for which she knew she had herself to blame. For she made her bed, and now it was time to lay on it.