A blur of motion followed by a thunk catches everyone by surprise, with gasps of startlement and confusion interrupting the hold the movie held for everyone.
I walk over to find the original object in three pieces. The taped together cardboard box filled with video games that it had hit did not sustain further damage; it still held together. This relieves me, but does not soothe my anger.
I gather the pieces of my cell phone and walk down the hall to turn into a bedroom and find some semblance of privacy. I sit down, not on my friend’s bed, but on the floor with my back leaning against the frame. The hard stiffness matches my resolve and my adrenaline is pumping so high that I am immune to any pain from the uncomfortable position I choose.
I am not crying, although my tears are back there. I stare at my phone, muttering under my breath expletives and encouragements to not be completely broken, to start back up, the phone is only a month ago, and a symptom of everything that is wrong in my life.
My friend, who’s bed I am currently leaning on, comes to find me in her room. She does not ask me “Are you OK?” My outburst of violence against my phone has already answered that.
When I hear “What’s wrong?” I wonder how to answer. I summarize the text message that I had received. It’s from my mother, who I haven’t spoken to in a month, since I packed my bags and moved out of her house.
Thankfully, my phone isn’t broken. It works just fine, once I put the battery back in and the battery cover still snaps in. The touch screen is a little scratched up. I figure that just means it fits into my life.
I grin, a part rueful grin, part dangerously angry grin, and stare hard. We talk, I cry, and life goes on.
My grin is because I realize that throwing my phone is a classic example of shooting the messenger. It is not, after all, the phone’s fault that someone has sent me a message with words that are either hurtful or not in it.
But damn if throwing my phone wasn’t satisfying.