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Author's Chapter Notes:

Yes, there's more torture ahead for Justin, bet you didn't expect that, huh? LOL. Enjoy! TAG



Chapter 17 - Inferno of Rage.



You know how some cartoon characters’ heads literally explode when they get angry? That’s the image I always saw in my mind whenever my ex used to fly into one of his rages. It was basically the same effect; one moment all would be relatively normal and then, without any real warning, he would explode, rocking the foundations of my world and leaving me standing there like some refugee of a nuclear blast.  


Welcome to ‘Narcissistic Rage’.



If you read the literature on narcissism, they’ll recite all sorts of freudian psychobabble about the phenomenon known as Narcissistic Rage, but all you really need to know is that it’s a real thing. Any time a narcissist experiences a ‘fall from grace’, such as when they get caught and their hidden behaviors or motivations are revealed, or when their importance is brought into question and their tender ego gets bruised, they’re likely to completely lose it. Completely. Like, head exploding, lose it. 


The most difficult part of dealing with a raging narcissist, though, isn’t the anger itself, although that can get bad and sometimes even turn violent. It isn’t the embarrassment you feel being associated with someone who can’t control their temper in public. It isn’t even the fallout that comes after the rage, when you have to explain yourself to the cops checking out a domestic dispute complaint or placate offended friends. It’s the fucking unpredictability of it all. The uncertainty about just WHEN the rage will erupt. Because you can never just relax. Anything can set them off; usually it isn’t something you could even see coming. Which means that every minute of every day you have to be prepared to deal with the rage. 


It’s fucking exhausting. 



“Yeah, so, there I was, dreading the drive home because Ethan was completely devastated that he didn’t win, you know? But then this old bald guy comes up to us and says he’s with Erato Records and offers to take us out for dinner.”


“That sounds promising,” Daphne replied, sounding suitably excited even through the tiny speakers of my ear buds.


“It is more than promising, Daph, it’s amazing. Just listen.” I stepped out of the art building into the early summer morning and took a deep breath of the fresh air before I continued my phone call. “This guy says to Ethan that he’s not interested in Cho Li, the winner, because he’s not looking for technical perfection, he’s looking for a true performer. Someone who has charisma. Someone who is young and vibrant and has a certain look, you know? And he thinks that’s Ethan!”


“Well, Ethan definitely has the ‘musician look’ down,” Daph interjected. “It’s that weird beard patch thing on his chin, I think.”


I laughed, even though I knew I shouldn’t. “Stop, Daph.”


“Hey, as long as you don’t mind the dead rat on his chin, what do I know?” she teased.


“I think it makes him look rebellious,” I told my BFF, and then added, “and I don’t mind the way it tickles my balls when he goes down on me either.”


“Gross!” I could hear her fake gagging in the background, which made me laugh even harder. “Don’t put that kind of image in my head, Justin! It’ll scar me for life!” 


“Serves you right for making fun of my boyfriend,” I pointed out. “But, anyway, this record label guy takes us out to dinner and we talk and then at the end of the evening, he says he wants to sign Ethan! They’re drawing up all the paperwork this week. Can you believe it? Ethan’s gonna get an official recording contract with tour dates and everything!”


“That’s really good news, Jus! I’m happy for you guys,” Daph congratulated me. 


“Thanks. Ethan’s, like, over the moon, you know? You should hear all the plans he’s already making.” 


“Well, the first plan he needs to make is to pay you back for all the money you’ve spent supporting his ass for the past few months,” Daph insisted, throwing a bit of cold water on my elation.


“Daph . . .”


“Fine. I’ll shut up,” she finally relented. Sorta. “Even though you know I’m right about the money thing.”


“I told you we’d worked that out, Daphne. Ethan’s been much better since we talked about it.”


“I know. But you still need to make sure you follow through and change your payroll deposits back to your own account now that it’s June.”


“I plan to, Daph. I just keep forgetting to talk to Luke,” I assured her. “But can we please not talk about that right now? Can’t I just enjoy being happy over my boyfriend’s big triumph for a while?”


“Of course you can. And to prove just how supportive a friend I am, how about I take you both out to dinner to celebrate?”


“Really? Wow. That would be great, Daph.” My friend’s generosity never disappointed. “Oh, hey, here’s Ethan now. Let me ask him when he’s available. Hang on.”


I muted the phone and leaned in to greet my boyfriend, who’d just come around the corner of the music building to join me. “Hey. Daph wants to take us out to dinner to celebrate Erato. Can I tell her we’re free tonight?”


Ethan scrunched up his face into a frown, clearly not enthused about the idea. “Do we have to?”


“Stop, you!” I ordered. “She’s trying to be nice. Making a gesture. You need to at least meet her halfway.”


Ethan shook his head, then rubbed his mouth as if thinking, and ended up with his fingers worrying at the little soul patch he sometimes liked to play with. “She hates me, you know. Don’t know why she’d want to take me out to dinner. Unless, maybe, to make fun of me some more.”


“Come on. Don’t be like that,” I chided him with a little backhanded swat to his stomach. “Please, Ethan. Daphne just wants to celebrate with us. And she offered to pay, too, so . . .”


“You’re such a slave to your stomach,” he teased with a shake of his head. “I bet you’d sell me out for a steak dinner, wouldn’t you?”


“Hell yeah. I’d sell out my mother for a nice juicy filet mignon. Any. Fucking. Day!” I replied with a churlish grin. 


“Well, never let it be said that I stood between you and your stomach,” Ethan relented. “Fine. Tell your gal pal we can do dinner tonight.”


I rewarded him with a kiss before unmuting the call and finishing the arrangements with Daphne. The plan was for Daphne to pick us up and then head out together to Joselito’s Cabana for mexican food, something I had been craving for a while now. I was excited because, not only was I going to get my favorite ethnic food, but I was gonna have a chance to hang with Daph, which I hadn’t been able to do for way longer than I liked. I made a mental note to myself to be better at connecting to my friends, no matter how busy I got.


Unfortunately, the entire evening ended up being a disaster almost from the very start.


First, we discovered that Joselito’s was closed on Sunday nights - totally ridiculous, right? What restaurant closes on Sundays? - which meant we had to come up with an alternative on the spot. Since Daph knew the neighborhood better than the rest of us, we listened to her suggestion that we try this new Lebanese pizza place that was only a few blocks away. But when we got there, we found a line that went clear around the corner. Since I was starving, I begged the others to go someplace else close by and they reluctantly agreed. We checked out the pub a couple blocks over, but their menu was pathetic, and the sushi place next door was ridiculously expensive, and even the sports bar on the corner, which looked dangerously Hetero for a couple of Art school fags. 


By that point none of us were in a great mood anymore. I was getting to that stage of low blood sugar ‘hangry’ where I’d eat pretty much anything. Daph pulled out her phone and searched for ‘food’ nearby but the only place within a five mile radius that we hadn’t yet tried was the Red Robin. Ethan wasn’t exactly thrilled with that bourgeoise option, however I threatened to pass out if I wasn’t fed immediately, so he gave in, albeit with poor grace.


Apparently, though, everybody else in the city had the same idea for dinner that night and there was a huge waiting list even at Red Robin. We put our names in and then retreated to the bar where Daph and I employed our fake IDs to order beers. Ethan, surprisingly, admitted he didn’t have a fake, so he was forced to go the soft drink route, and clearly wasn’t happy to be left out in that respect. He grumbled the whole time me and Daph were sipping at our beers.


Finally, after a good twenty minutes, we were shown to a dinky little table right next to the kitchen. Ethan tried to get the hostess to seat us somewhere else, but it was way too busy and we would have had to wait again, so I intervened and told the harried woman the table she’d offered would be fine. Even once we were seated, though, things didn’t go any better. The place was seriously understaffed that evening; we had to wait ten minutes just to get a waiter’s attention and another fifteen before he came back and apologized that the kitchen was backed up, offering us a basket of free onion rings to tide us over. By that point I would have eaten the plastic basket, but Ethan turned his nose up at the appetizer, complaining that he didn’t like onions; something I hadn’t known about him yet.


At least, while Daph and I nibbled on the onion rings, Ethan finally got a chance to brag about the ongoing contract discussions with his soon-to-be recording label. Erato sounded like the perfect place for Ethan; it was a newer label that was trying to cultivate an edgier reputation. They wanted hot, young, rising stars to represent them, not stodgy oldsters that looked like they’d swallowed a cello. They were hoping to use Ethan as a vehicle to make bigger inroads into the online music world and planned to market him heavily on social media. It all sounded pretty fantastic, although he was rather vague on how all this would translate on the financial side of things. 


“Jacob thinks I could be the next big thing on the classical circuit. Maybe even the catalyst to bring a new wave of young people back to classical music,” he boasted with his chin held high and the stars in his eyes so bright it almost blinded me too. 


Daph wasn’t exactly buying it though. “Yeah, good luck with that,” she snorted into her beer. “I think I’ll stick with my hip hop, rap, and good old-fashioned rock. Thank you very much.”


“Well, you would say that,” Ethan replied dismissively. 


“What does that mean,” Daphne asked, her tone prickly.


“Nothing,” Ethan answered quickly, and then ruined it all by elucidating. “It’s just that, most blacks don’t have the education to appreciate classical music. That’s why there aren’t any decent black classical composers. I wouldn’t expect someone like YOU to understand the appeal of a sophisticated music palate.”


I groaned and prepared myself to watch my best friend - who was not only extremely intelligent but better educated than Ethan and who’d taken ten years of classical piano lessons as a child - hand my boorish boyfriend his ass.


“Is that so?” Daphne challenged. Then she turned to me and casually asked, “don’t they require the music students at PIFA to take any musical history classes at all?”


“Of course I took musical history,” Ethan spoke up before I could say anything. “I’m quite well versed in all the great composers, clear back to antiquity, and I rather resent you implying otherwise.”


“Well, your teachers must have sucked then. Or maybe you just skipped the day they talked about my great, great uncle, Mr. Samuel Coleridge-Taylor?” Daph smirked at the look of astonishment on the chastised musician’s face. “So, please, don’t talk shit about a subject you obviously know nothing about.” She picked up her beer and raised it in a toast to the still speechless man sitting across the table from her. “But, for what it’s worth, I still prefer hip hop, and I’m pretty sure, if he’d been alive today, so would Uncle Sammy.”


Thankfully, Ethan held his tongue and didn’t try to argue with her. Daph might seem like an easy-going and polite young lady, but you did NOT want to get on her bad side. Her tongue had a razor-edge that would flay you alive if you weren’t careful. And, while the uneasy silence that followed wasn’t exactly pleasant, on the whole, I thought it was preferable to the bloodshed that might have ensued if Ethan had tried to take on the esteemed Ms. Chanders.


The final straw that completely tanked the night, however, was when the food finally arrived and Ethan’s burger turned out to be just barely beyond raw. 


“What the fuck?” Ethan roared, standing up so fast that his chair toppled over into the aisle, startling the occupants of the table next to us. “This is unacceptable!”


“I’m sorry, Sir. Is there a problem?” the waiter immediately bustled back over to see what was what. 


“Yes. I’d say this is a fucking problem alright!” Ethan growled and picked up his plate with the raw hamburger on it and shoved it into the waiter’s face. “I ordered my burger medium well. Does this LOOK medium well to you?”


“No. It doesn’t. I’m so sorry. I’ll take it right back . . .” the waiter apologized, grabbing hold of the plate.


“You know what, that’s not good enough,” Ethan argued, refusing to let go of the plate. “I have been waiting around in this sorry excuse for a restaurant for almost an hour now and when I finally do get served you can’t even cook the fucking food right? How the hell do you get away with shit like that, huh? Is this how you treat paying customers? Is it? Answer me, damn it!”


Ethan’s rage was at incendiary levels by that point. He was yelling at the poor, defeated-looking waiter at the top of his lungs. The other tables full of diners were all staring at Ethan, and by extension, me and Daphne too. I could tell that the father with three young kids sitting across the aisle from us wasn’t happy with the string of f-bombs Ethan was dropping at full volume. Meanwhile the harassed and clearly overworked waiter was trying to calm Ethan, explaining how two of the cooks had called in sick at the last minute, and offering to comp his dinner for him. Ethan wasn’t having any of it. He was beyond being placated by free food.


“No, I’m not going to sit down. I don’t care if I’m disturbing the other customers. I demand to see the manager right now, damn it!” Ethan bellowed obstinately. “I’ve never been treated this shitily in any restaurant in my whole life. I don’t care what your fucking excuse is; I’m not going to let you get away with this kind of crap. Now, get me the fucking manager!”


There was no need to call the manager, however, as the person in question had already detected the commotion and hustled over to see what in the name of creation was going on. “Can I help you, Sir?” the man said with an edge to his voice that implied he wasn’t really in a very helpful mood.


Ethan proceeded to scream out his complaints yet again. By that point I was so embarrassed and felt so badly for the poor, stressed out waiter, that I wanted to just slink under the table and hide. I could tell that Daphne was at least as mortified as I was. I mean, yeah, we hadn’t had the best dining experience of all time, but Ethan’s reaction was so overboard that it was insane. On top of everything else, he was yelling at the wrong people; it wasn’t the waiter’s fault that the kitchen was understaffed. He also didn’t need to be so crass or foul-mouthed in a family restaurant. 


“Listen, Mister.” After listening to Ethan’s full diatribe for another couple minutes the manager had finally had enough. “Both your server and myself have already tried to apologize to you. You’ve been offered your meal comp. But it seems like that’s not good enough for you? So, what is it you actually want?”


“I want RESPECT, damn it! That’s what I want,” Ethan shrieked, so red in the face by that point that he looked like he was about to have a stroke.


Suffice it to say that the manager was convinced by this reply that he wasn’t dealing with a reasonable person. “You know what? I think it’s time you and your party leave, Sir.”


“What? What the fuck? You’re throwing me out now? Seriously? After the way I’ve already been treated, you’re throwing ME out? Well, fuck that!” Ethan shoved the manager out of the way - which was pretty impressive considering the guy was at least a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier than the diminutive musician - and stomped off towards the door. “Justin! Let’s go!”


I started to get up, but Daphne put out her hand to stop me. “Just let him go, Justin. He’s being an ass. You don’t need to run after him and coddle him. You’ll just be feeding into his bad behavior.”


I looked after Ethan’s retreating back - even from a distance I could tell by the set line of his shoulders that he was still fuming - and I was tempted to sit back down next to my friend. Dealing with Ethan in that kind of mood would be a nightmare. And I knew she was right, that his behavior was deplorable, and by rushing to placate him I was basically condoning it. But he was my boyfriend; I was supposed to stand by him, right? 


“Sorry, Daph, but I have to go after him.” She gave me this disappointed look. “If I don’t he’ll be even more of a bitch to deal with later,” I added, to which she shrugged an acknowledgment. “I’ll call you later.”


As expected, Ethan was a towering inferno of rage for about the next hour or so. Luckily, he didn’t require any support from me other than to just sit there and act as a sounding board while he ranted about the damn restaurant. And I guess I understood why he was angry - the service was lousy and the burger was inedible - but I couldn’t help thinking that his reaction was totally out of proportion to the crime. Wouldn’t it have been enough to send the food back and take the comped meal? Why did he seem to take it so personally? Did he really have to throw a public fit and embarrass us all? I probably couldn’t ever show my face in that restaurant again, not after Ethan’s performance today. But whatever. My immediate problem was just dousing the flames of my infuriated boyfriend long enough to get him to stop shouting. 


So I sat there on the couch, with Felicity purring away in my lap and totally oblivious to the uproar going on around her, pretending to listen, while Ethan worked himself up into a lather. Then, thankfully, he finally turned to his violin and spent the next hour or so taking his temper out on it. I continued to sit there quietly, not even drawing because I knew, in his current mood, the scratching of my pencil on the paper would push him over the edge again. Instead, I spent the time loving on my sweet little kitten. Eventually Wolfram hopped up on the couch and joined us, giving me two cats to pet. Which was great for my frazzled nerves, but terrible for my allergies, especially when I was running low on allergy meds again. I would have to ask Ethan to pick some more up for me soon or I’d end up a mess.


When even his music didn’t seem to be enough to quell all of Ethan’s pique, he gave up and put Misha away. “I’m too worked up; I’m so tense, my fingers keep tightening up on the strings and it’s causing me to screw up the transition. I can’t play like this. I need some air.”


With that, he was gone, not even having said goodbye let alone telling me where he was going or when he’d be back. Frankly, though, I was glad he left. I felt like I could finally relax after an evening that had been way too stressful. Funny, I didn’t remember any other dinners out with my friends that had felt quite so taxing. It made me wonder why almost everything I did anymore seemed so enervating. I wasn’t even twenty yet and sometimes I felt like a hundred year old man. 


So I just sat there with my harem of cats and, for at least a few minutes, I reveled in the quiet and calm. 


Until my phone rang, interrupting the peaceful atmosphere. “Hey, Daph. Sorry to leave you hanging there at the restaurant. Did you get out of there okay after we left?” I said as I answered.


“Yeah, everything was fine once the big dramatic queen left,” Daph replied, still sounding a little put out despite her statement.


“Sorry about that, Daph,” I repeated, not really knowing what else I could say.


“You’re not the one who should be apologizing, Justin,” she continued. “I mean, what the fuck is Ethan’s problem? He was a total ass from the moment I first picked you guys up. First the racist comments and then he just goes off on that poor waiter. He has a serious anger management problem.”


“Yeah, I did feel a little bad for the waiter,” I admitted. “My dad used to lord it over the waiters at the club like that all the time and it always made my mom cringe.”


“But at least your dad didn’t throw a temper tantrum worthy of a preschooler in the middle of the dining room and end up getting kicked out.” 


“I guess it WAS a little much,” I conceded.


And I might have continued to agree with her if Daphne hadn’t proceeded to tear into Ethan nonstop for the next twenty minutes or so. 


I understood why she was so angry; I really did. Ethan’s behavior was not at all what we’d been brought up to tolerate. He had been rude - to both her and to the waiter - and there was no disputing that he obviously could have handled the situation better. The comments he’d made about black composers were downright racist and understandably offensive. I didn’t dispute any of that. Not really. But the more Daphne complained about Ethan, the more I felt like *I* was the one on the spot. I was caught in the middle. Before long the discussion turned into something where I felt like the one getting dissed, at least by association. So, eventually, I found myself contradicting Daphne, defending Ethan, and offering up excuses for him.


“Why are you always defending him, Justin?” Daphne finally got fed up with my rationalizations. “Ethan is a racist, and an idiot, and a boor, and you know it. I can’t believe you’re trying to justify how reprehensible he acted tonight. The Justin I know would never tolerate that kind of shit.” When I didn’t know what to say in response to that statement, Daphne’s anger seemed to erupt onto me as well. “You know what, Justin? I don’t even recognize you anymore. I hate what Ethan’s turned you into. I hate that MY friend would stick up for someone who is so detestable. And you’re just letting him do it. You’re buying all his bullshit.”


“I am not. But . . . He’s my boyfriend, Daph. I may not agree with everything he says, but . . .”


She cut me off. “He’s not good for you, Justin. You need to cut bait and run. Now. Before you become just like him.”


Of course that warning just pissed me off completely. “You go too far, Daphne. You always do,” I spat back stubbornly.


Then I hung up on my oldest friend and I didn’t talk to her again for a long, long time.


 

Chapter End Notes:

2/19/20 - There’s just soooo much to unpack in this chapter. I hope I’m getting all the nuances of living with a narcissist in here. The exhaustion is the main thing I remember. You are always on edge and waiting for the next attack, the next outburst, the next unreasonable expectation, and it’s so tiring. But this chapter also highlights how the victim sometimes helps the abuser to isolate him - the embarrassment and misplaced loyalty doing a lot of the work for the narcissist without him ever having to say a thing. Plus, there’s a little foreshadowing as well as a throwback reference to something from a past chapter that will eventually become apparent, and . . . Damn, it’s all coming together so well. I’m incredibly happy with this story so far. Also, thank you to my dearest Jazzepoet for her assist on this chapter - I asked her to give me a sensitivity reading on Ethan’s racist comments before I posted. I hope anyone I might have offended will understand the fictional purpose for putting that scene in there and not get too angry at me. To make up for it, here’s a link to a GREAT black composer:  Samuel Coleridge-Taylor. Thanks for bearing with me. TAG

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