“In the end, rage, no matter how profoundly justified, destroys the enraged. Just as we are created anew by what we love, so we are reduced and unmade by what we hate.”
― Salman Rushdie, Two Years Eight Months and Twenty-Eight Nights

Jack liked most things. He wouldn’t say all things made him happy, so perhaps he was indifferent about most things. Rarely, did he feel so strongly as to hate something. However, today, one of the girls in his elementary class drew a picture of him. She made him round and red, and it looked nothing like him, he thought. It made him angry. He hated it, he decided. Hated it very much, but he didn’t want to hurt the girl’s feelings, so he said thank you and took it home with him. That night, he stared at the picture and thought about how much he hated it. He was so angry he thought he might burst. Then she saw the shadows move, and out from under his bead and from behind his closet door, and from every dark corner of the room, came these little shadow monsters. They laughed and all grabbed a side of the picture and pulled. They pulled until the picture was all in pieces, and then they disappeared back into the inky corners of the room, and Jack was very afraid….

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