The numbers on the digital clock slowly change, counting each minute with silent precision. The numbers are meaningless to me. Time isn't real. It isn't something tangible. Yet the numbers are comforting. Predictable. The numbers say that it is 2: 33. I have been sitting in the stifling darkness for precisely five hours and twenty-eight minutes. I am waiting.

I am waiting for the anger to leave me. When it goes, I will crawl beneath the heavy quilt, allowing sleep to encompass me. I need to sleep but I won't succumb until the anger is gone. After it goes I will not cry. I will not allow the hot tears to flow. I will fight them with sleep and I will win. Sleep will protect me from my tears.

I stiffly slide off the bed and switch on the light. Moving unsteadily to the mirror I observe the solemn face peering at me. The face is mine. The narrow chin. The too perfect teeth. The nearly invisible dusting of freckles across the nose and flushed cheeks.

The eyes aren't mine. They are angry eyes. Dark. Shining. Glittering with a suppressed rage that is slowly ebbing. The anger is not as overwhelming. It is seeping away, leaving me limp with exhaustion. But the eyes will remember. They are dangerous, for they will never forget. They are a silent reminder of easily awakened pain.