He had never seen her angry in this way. He had seen her angry before, but it was always a wet kind of anger. The kind of anger where her eyes filled with tears while she yelled at him. It was the kind of anger where her shook so hard she couldn’t look him in the eye. It was the kind of anger where afterward she’d collapse into a pile of limbs and cry for hours. He could deal with that kind of anger. He could comfort her. He could fix it.
But this new kind of anger was completely different. It was a dry anger. The kind of anger where her face was like stone. No tears were in her eyes. Her voice wasn’t raised. She was completely in control. It was the kind of anger where her accusatory stare felt like shards of glass cutting through his body and soul. Her words were like bullets, aimed perfectly to make him feel pain, to make him suffer. This was the kind of anger that made him feel guilty in every molecule of his body. Dry anger was much worse than wet anger. Wet anger meant she cared too much. Dry anger meant she was done.
He stood there as her tongue pierced him, silent. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t fix what he had done. He couldn’t explain himself. Not to this carved stone that had once been his entire world. She wouldn’t listen, she had no reason to listen. He had done this, he had turned her into this. He knew that. And that broke his heart into more pieces then her words ever could. He had hurt her. He had done the one thing that he had sworn to protect her from. It was all his fault.
Dry anger was so much worse than wet anger, because dry anger meant she had lost her love for him. And that was a fate more tragic than death.