Psychological Anger
From a psychological perspective, anger is a powerful and complicated emotion. It often rises like a storm in response to threats, injustices, or betrayals, real or perceived. In bullying, anger can become a kind of armor, a way to feel powerful when the rest of you feels crushed. Sometimes it's loud, searing, and explosive. Other times, it simmers like a kettle you never take off the stove, boiling until it warps you from the inside.
Left unchecked, anger feeds on itself. It isolates you, convinces you that the world is your enemy, and can drive you toward dangerous ways of reclaiming control, lashing out, or planning one final act to make the hurt stop and to make others pay for causing it.
Tom's POV
The metallic slam of the locker door cracked through the empty hallway, and just like that, I was cornered.
Three of them. All blocking my only way out.
The leader, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing that smug grin like it was part of his uniform, stepped forward. His two shadows, both varsity guys with that too-loud, too-carefree laugh, flanked him. Their sneakers squeaked against the tiles, casual and unhurried, like they already owned me.
"What's in the bag, little man?" the leader asked, his tone so syrupy-sweet it made my skin crawl. "Another comic book? Or are you into those Japanese cartoons?"
My stomach dropped.
They knew. Somehow, they always knew.
The backpack on my shoulder suddenly felt like a live grenade. Inside was my collection of manga volumes I'd saved up for months to buy, and my sketchbook, filled with worlds I could escape to. Places where I wasn't… me.
"Give me the bag," I managed to say, my voice trembling. I hated the sound of it, small, unsteady. I wanted to yell. To shove past them. To make him bleed. But I knew better. I'd seen what happened to kids who fought back.
His smirk widened like he'd just won a bet.
He snatched the strap from my shoulder, the motion yanking me forward before I stumbled back. His friends chuckled.
"Look at this," he said, fishing out a volume with its glossy cover, a hero mid-battle against a monster, sword drawn. He held it like it was trash. "We've got a little hero here."
He tossed it to the floor. The thud felt like it went straight through my chest.
That book wasn't just paper and ink. It was my safe place, my hiding spot in a world that wouldn't leave me alone.
Then came the tearing. The leader ripped a page out with slow, deliberate movements. His friends joined in, the sound of paper splitting over their laughter. My fists clenched until my nails dug into my palms. My legs wanted to move, but my body stayed frozen, locked in place.
"Look at him," the leader said, motioning to me. "He's about to cry. Go on, loser. Cry for us."
Something cold and sharp formed in my gut. Not sadness. Not even shame.
Pure, concentrated hate.
I wanted them to feel this. The way my chest burned, the way my throat felt like it might close. I wanted them to wake up at night with that same crawling helplessness.
When they finally left, the floor was littered with scraps of my hero's story.
I knelt.
Not to pick them up. There was no point, but my knees gave out.
I didn't cry. Couldn't. All I felt was the weight of a decision starting to settle in my bones. They'd taken my dignity, my safety, even the one place I could breathe. They'd made me invisible, a ghost walking these halls. But I wouldn't stay invisible forever.
That night, I lay in bed, phone in hand. I wasn't scrolling for memes or distraction. I was hunting. For something. For anything.
That's when I found it.
A dark post, buried deep in a corner of the internet I'd never seen before. A black image, like the sky after the stars burn out. The caption read:
"Tired of looking at the stars and seeing nothing but darkness?"
Yes.
"Feel like you're drifting, a lone asteroid in an endless cold expanse?"
Yes.
It was signed by The Starlight Society.
It didn't read like a cry for help. It read like a soldier's call to arms, for people who had seen the truth, who knew there was nothing worth staying for. A place with no judgment, no lies.
I wasn't looking for comfort. I wasn't looking to be saved.
I was looking for an ending that would make them remember me.
My thumbs hovered over the screen, steady now, not shaking like earlier.
I typed:
They'll regret it when I'm gone. I want them to know it was them.
The words didn't just feel true.
They felt like the first thing in a long time that I had control over.
The Starlight Society wasn't an escape from my pain.
It was a weapon.
Lesson on Psychological Anger
Here lies the danger of psychological anger: it seduces you into thinking destruction is control. For Tom, that online post wasn't a beacon. It was a war drum. He didn't want a way out of his suffering. He wanted to pass it on, to make sure those responsible carried its weight. The Starlight Society became his battlefield, a way to turn his silent rage into something loud and undeniable. His pain wasn't a whisper anymore. It was a scream, and he intended for someone to finally hear it.