Cinnamon toast changed my life.

Laden with a backpack containing a denim folder and my fourth grade books, my house was a welcome sight as I rounded the corner. It was a beautiful fall day in the San Fernando valley. The temperature was in the eighties and I barely noticed the noise from the Ventura Freeway as I approached the front door. My only thought was to make it to the bathroom before my bladder exploded. I tossed my backpack down on the couch as I passed through the living room. Making the right turn down the hall, I was elated to see the only bathroom in the house wasn't occupied by any of my three brothers. We were the only ones home at this hour in the afternoon. My older brother, four years my senior, was left in charge.

After finishing my business, I made a bee line to the kitchen. Having taken care of my first need, it was time to put some cinnamon toast in my belly to quiet the grumbling noises that now dominated my thoughts. I opened the cabinet and grabbed my favorite orange plastic cup. I liked it because it was tall and held just the right amount of milk. I turned around placed the cup on the counter while I grabbed the bread. I opened the package, took out the two slices, and popped them in the toaster. It was about this time D, the oldest, appeared in the kitchen doorway with my younger twin brothers standing behind him. He had an agitated look on his face.

"Mom said no snacks until you're done with your homework." was the first thing out of his mouth.

"But D," I protested, "I already popped the bread in the toaster."

He came back with, "Mom said 'no snacks' and she left me in charge."

"But DeeEEEEeee," I whined stretching his name out in the shrill way kids sometimes do, "The toast is gonna get stale."

He reached over and lifted the handle of the toaster and the bread popped back up. "Sorry, but mom said."

"I promise I'll do my homework as soon as I have my toast." I pleaded as I popped the toast back down.

"NO! Mom said I'm in charge and you can't have your toast until you're done with your homework." and he popped the bread back up and took it out of the machine.

D was being reasonable and following the orders I knew to be true. But it didn't make any difference. I snapped like a twig. My fuse had always been short. I went from typical happy-go-lucky fourth grader to complete demon in a millisecond.

"Gimme my toast butt head!" I yelled.

D turned and handed the bread to the twins and told them to run. The kidnergardeners took great delight in being introduced into the fray. Taking a piece each they giggled as they obliged my older brother's order. They all ran in unison from the kitchen. The twins in front and D running interference in the rear. I immediately gave chase. We ran around in circles through the kitchen and the hall and the dining room. The twins knew instinctively to do this as any other direction would've lead to a dead end. My rage grew to rival that of any incredible hulk transformation I ever saw on the live action TV series. D saw it building as he ran encouraging my little brothers to mock me. During our second to last pass around the kitchen D told the little ones to run to the bathroom. It was the only room inside the house with a lock on the door. They laughed as they ran down the hall to safety.

Now my rage only had one target who was bigger and much faster than I. On the last pass through the kitchen I picked up my favorite orange cup and, as I rounded the corner to the dining room one last time, I saw D had given up on the meaningless round and round through the kitchen and was heading through the living room toward the front door. With all the strength I could muster, I threw the cup at him and hit him square in the center of the back. He let out a scream and immediately went down to the floor. In a mindless rage over my toast, I quickly closed the distance to where he lay crying on the carpet. I looked down on him triumphantly and, without so much a second thought, started jumping on his back as if he were my parents mattress. The sobs and the pain in my brothers voice fell on rage deafened ears. I was berserk. I was out of control.

Satisfied that he was out of commission, I left him crying on the living room floor. I turned the corner to the hall and directed my rage to the end were the bathroom door stood between me and my goal. I gathered a full head of steam and threw myself into the locked door with all my might. I barely felt the pain from coming into contact with the wood at full speed. It stood fast. I backed up and hit it again. Something cracked. One last time I went barreling down the hall into the door. This time it flew open with little effort. I spilled out onto the tile floor and hit my head on the corner of the sink as I went down. I knew I was hurt but my rage knew no pain. I picked myself up off the floor and turned to the bathtub where my little brothers cowered still holding the toast they were given. Heaving from the exertion but still full of hate I opened the shower door and raised my right fist. They were crying but there would be no mercy from me. Tears of rage spewed down my face and was going to pound on them till it was out of my system. My fist, raised high behind my head, was suddenly ripped backwards so hard that it spun me completely around. Holding my arm was the neighbor and friend of the family who's daughter we played with regularly. She was a large sweet woman who happened to be a teacher at a local school. D had followed mom's emergency procedures and run for her once he recovered from the literal stomping I had administered.

She took me across the street to her house and immediately called my mom at the office. I sat, quietly sobbing, in my neighbor's house as I waited for my mortified mother to come home. The pain I had inflicted to my own body during my mindless rage came with a vengeance. The entire left side of my body hurt from where I had come in contact with the bathroom door. A large knot had developed on my head from where I hit it on the sink. I was on the verge of falling asleep from the energy my body had expended while in an adrenaline induced fury. When my mom arrived, she kept apologizing to her friend for having to deal with me. The gentle teacher continually reassured her that everything was fine and no one was really hurt. While walking across the street, I looked up at my mom who had tears streaming down her cheeks. I never felt so bad in all my young life as I did that moment. It was a profound scar on my young psyche. Even though the punishment I knew would be coming was severe, nothing was as bad as seeing my, normally strong, mother crying as I was escorted home.

This event marked a major turning point in my personality. Before this day I was an outgoing little kid who feared nothing and fought with my siblings and kids at school at the drop of a hat. From this day forward I was more shy and reserved. My mom wondered what happened to the little kid that would charm strangers in restaurants and lose his temper all too quick when he didn't get his way. It was this event, as much as any that followed, which shaped who and what I am today. That little terror of a kid still lies dormant deep within my personality. I learned to keep control of my rage that day. Hints have surfaced but I never let the demon completely out except when I got into my one and only school fight after that day. I still shudder at the thought that I'm capable of such violence but take comfort that it only comes back when I'm physically threatened.