An angry failure

 The scent of varnish and sawdust usually comforted Terrance. His small carpentry workshop, tucked behind his home in Soufrière, was his sanctuary. But lately, the smell was suffocating. A large order for a hotel was his biggest yet and was behind schedule. The mahogany for a dining set was warping in the humid air, and every missed call from the manager felt like a nail in his professional coffin.

The anxiety was a constant, low hum in his veins, a tremble in his hands he mistook for the vibrations of his sander. He felt it as he tallied the rising costs, as he stared at the imperfect joinery, as he lay awake at night listening to the tree frogs. He was drowning in the deep water of what-ifs.

His wife, Celia, was his anchor, but he kept mistaking her for another wave about to crash over him. One evening, she brought him a plate of fried plantain and a cold Piton beer, her smile gentle. “You’re working too hard, cher. Come, eat.”

The kindness was a spark to his tinder-dry nerves. The anxiety, seeking an outlet, instantly transformed. “You think food will fix this? Steups” he snapped, his voice sharper than any chisel. “You think my problems so small? This is my livelihood! Just leave me alone.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than the mahogany planks. He saw the light in her eyes flicker and die. She left without a word, closing the workshop door softly behind her, a sound far more devastating than a slam.

The anger, its purpose spent, instantly curdled into a profound, aching shame. He was left alone with the source again: the fear. But now it was joined by a deeper despair. He had taken his angst, born of his own insecurity, and weaponized it against the one person who loved him most. He gripped the workbench, his knuckles white, and turned the fury inward. You are a failure. A bad businessman. A worse husband. The cycle was complete: from anxiety to anger, from anger to guilt, from guilt back into the dark, churning waters of despair.

The came a familiar moment. He sank onto a stool, head in his hands, his dreadlocks a curtain hiding his face. His soul broken again, He was a man lost at sea, and in his panic, he was beating away the one person trying to pull him into the boat. The anger was indeed just a shadow, a dark, restless shape cast by the solid, terrifying mass of his fear. And until he faced the fear itself, he would remain trapped in the dark, hurting everyone he loved, especially himself.

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