I Am Stronger Than Anger Novels & Stories

“Today, Don Salvatore suffers another hit and it won’t be long before he becomes weak and easy for the taking.” I'd been riding on a wave of anger for so long, that I almost forgot what it was to be normal. Anger became my friend and companion, it was better than feeling pain. Pain brought the ugly truth about reality. Maybe, that's why people held on to their anger, it was preferable to the pain and I was not an exception.

I felt an unusual strength in my body due to my anger. "Livia, unleash me now! I want to k*ll that bitch!" Lilly's orders still echoed in my mind, but my ears were now closed off to everything except the primal urge that consumed me. The only thing that mattered was seeing blood, feeling the rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins.

Words flow easier these days, spoken under stars, about what we want rather than what we dread. It wasn’t meant as a penalty, this starting again. Not at all. Redemption was what it turned out to be. That woman who passed away by herself - my anger toward her melted away. Instead, something like respect took its place. Through the worst nights, she was somehow there, holding me up without touching me. Each wound, each sob, each endless stretch of isolation shaped a quiet power I wear today like second skin. What used to paralyze me now pushes forward motion. Out of anger grew resolve. From sorrow built something stronger - love, realer than any dream allowed.

Every time I thought I had something he showed me the hole in it and made me do it again. “You’re angry,” he said at one point, watching me reset after a hard takedown. “I can see it in how you move. Anger makes you fast. It also makes you stupid. Drop it or use it on purpose. Don’t let it use you.” I dropped it as much as I could and kept moving. Sweat ran into my eyes. My shoulders ached. The heat in my chest stayed present but quieter than usual, like it was watching instead of pushing. By the time we finished my arms shook and my shirt was stuck to my back.

Shooter snarled as he tried to run at us. Keyword, tried. I pulled out a gun and aimed at him and he froze. "Tsk. Tsk. That isn't very big brotherly." I teased. "That's a hell of a limp you've got there bro." I added and I watched as his anger exploded inside him. "How'd you get it? Street fight? Bar brawl? Or did your little sister fuck you up for beating on your woman like the piece of shit you are?" I pushed and he snarled.

I heard my little angel sniffle and step away from him, giving me space, but I didn’t dare look at her in that moment—I knew I’d find her crying, and I wouldn’t be able to handle it. “You rebuild,” I said, grabbing his face with both hands and looking deep into his eyes. “You take everything you have, combine it with the pain and fear of losing someone you love, and you turn into someone stronger. Someone worthy of Svetlana.” “Did you manage that? Did you become stronger for Angela?” “I’m getting stronger—for her and for our son,” I said, even knowing she might scold me, and his surprised gaze sought her out. “You’ll manage too. Your wife is special, even if you’re a fucked-up jerk, so becom

I said in another rage, and this time Tristian caught me in a punch and pinned her close to him. I freed herself and tackled him to the ground, but he got up fast enough to use my attack against me. “Not everyone stays down, that’s another lesson, don’t be blinded by the obvious, always finish up. Don’t let you emotions get in the way.” “Emotions? Is that what all this is about? You think I’m weak?”I glared, “Oh, you have no idea…” “I never said you where weak… you are just letting anger cloud your strength, Emotions is—”

"I've been learning to get mine under control though. You should probably work on that. Anger will only get you killed these days." He gets to his feet and turns to look at me with a steely expression on his face. "You're wrong. Anger helps us to fight these things. I just think about losing everyone I ever loved or cared about, and it drives me to destroy those fucking things. Maybe you should get a little angry. It might save your life."

And if you want to fight, a little more than anger is required from you. His words seemed to sober up the atmosphere, and I highly disliked that he was right. I could ride my anger for years and years, but it could not be the only thing that I had going for me. I only managed to nod so I could swallow the pride that was rising inside me. “Then teach me.” The man that was in front of me looked slightly puzzled by my answer, and he arched an eyebrow. “Teach you?” “Yes,” I responded, looking straight into his eyes. “No, if I am to be with you—if I am to survive this—I have to be stronger.” And you are the only one who can help me.”

“You’re stronger than this. I hate to know that that bastard has defeated you. I hate it more than you know.” I shrug. I hate it, too, but my wounds are still too fresh. But recently, I’ve been feeling this anger toward him. It’s bottomless and cold. It’s the kind of anger that would give me the necessary courage to drive a stake into his heart and watch him die. It’s the kind of anger that scares me.