There’s something primal about screaming. A raw, guttural sound that tears free from the deepest part of you, carrying everything—pain, rage, fear, even joy. It’s release. A violent purge of emotions too overwhelming to be contained.
I’ve screamed in frustration, punching my pillow after a terrible day. I’ve screamed in exhilaration, arms thrown wide on a rollercoaster’s descent. And I’ve screamed in fear, my body reacting before my mind even fully processed the danger. Every time, it’s like something breaks loose inside me, a surge of electricity that leaves me lighter, emptier, and freer.
Science backs it up—screaming releases endorphins, those feel-good chemicals that flood the body like a reward for surviving the storm. It’s a pressure valve, a way to stop yourself from imploding. We all need it sometimes, that cathartic moment where the noise we make is louder than the chaos inside.
But screaming isn’t just for release—it’s a weapon, too. A warning. A signal. A call for help when all else fails. It cuts through the air, sharp and unmistakable, demanding attention. It can be the difference between life and death.
I want to scream now. Every instinct in me begs for it, my lungs swelling, my throat tightening. But I can’t. A hand—too strong, too firm—clamps over my mouth, smothering the sound before it can rise. My pulse hammers against my ribs, my muscles coil with the desperate need to fight, to flee, to make someone hear me.
But the world stays silent.
Interested in reading more? Download a copy of my novel SEETHINGS for free for a limited time. There’s more screaming in it, but no one can hear them!
-M
Discover more from Michael Forman – Author of Dark Fiction & Drama
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