⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ACT ONE ⇢ Sucker Punch. PART THREE, Bruised Knuckles
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
FADE IN: SCENE ONE DAY TWO— 4:21 PM
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₊˚ˑ🐚🪐*ೃ༄
AT THE HEIGHT OF RAGE, the climax of the unadulterated destructive chaos, nothing is singular. All that is left of the world blends together as a series of monotonous sensations and dull colours. Words no longer retain their individuality— moments are no longer something to be cherished for years to come. All that is left is this, the repetitive cracking of fists into a pristine white wall. All that is left is red.
Occasionally, however, beauty allows itself to seep through the walls of the pure archaic rage. Such insurmountable beauty relinquishes the demon that's nestled itself so far and deep within. Sometimes, that beauty presents itself within a bird chirping so gently you must pay attention. This time, it presented itself as a brown blanket haphazardly placed around Thomas' quivering frame. This time, it would be okay.
Now, this was no longer an overbearing rage that's spanned for thousands of years. Now, this was anger; and anger was something justifiable. Anger is a response to being hurt, not a sadistic blade to penetrate the skin of another. Anger made sense, although it was still overwhelming, it would be okay.
This is what Tommy was, deep down at his core, an angry destructive soul. It'd be easy to romanticize this anger, comment on how soft and melancholic it is, but, that'd be a lie. To say that it was beautiful, like a lion within, would be undermining how much it burnt him. It ached. Being this angry isn't something beautiful, its pathetic. This— acidic tears spilling down the sides of his face, bloodied fists, violently shaking— wasn't beautiful. It wasn't melancholic pain. It spilled out of him like water from a faulty tap. At some point the room would be filled, every square inch, with rage; vitriolic rage. He spent years counting down to his final breaths of air. Just waiting for it to consume him.
"— Tommy, I need you to breathe, please." Phil was stood above Tommy, blanket in hand. He must've come in when the world composed itself only of ones and twos; a sea of monochromatic brush strokes. Phil had probably heard the rhythmic cracks and come into the room to check on him, but, that didn't matter. What mattered was Phil stood above him, and now, there was something else to coil his mind around, something other than the cracks of his bones into the now blood covered wall. Now, Tommy could desperately cling onto the sensation of the fluffy blanket rather than letting the argument from earlier unfurl for the millionth time within his anguish-soaked mind, ('You know Techno thinks you're fucking annoying to? Did you seriously think he actually wanted to talk to you?' Wilbur scoffed 'he only did because Dad forced him to')
