walking chaos

000

I understand now why when people get angry, they say they see red. Because here, as I'm straddling some good-for-nothing, all I see is red.

My knuckles, littered with fresh scars and reopened cuts, dripping with blood.

His nose, streaming with crimson red.

His shirt, stained with a combination of both his and my blood.

I couldn't stop. Any sense of composure had been shattered when he opened his stupid mouth. I hadn't planned to beat him up to this extent, after all I'm almost three months clean of physical fighting, but here I was. My fists pummelling into his face with no remorse. Was it wrong to say I missed this?

Earlier this evening, my little sister, Ophelia, came to me for help. I had always told her that if anyone bothers her, she comes straight to me, so when she explained what had been happening at her school I told her to go straight to bed and I left the house with nothing more than my jacket in hand.

She told me there was a boy, three years above, who had been following her around and making her feel scared. She said he was starting rumours about her and harassing her.

The boy was easy enough to find and I didn't waste much time in pinning him against the wall of the nearest alleyway. My aim was to just give him a scare, get him to apologise and back off. But when he had started explaining everything from his point of view, I couldn't stop myself.

It was his own fault for taunting me. Telling me about how he touched my little sister. My little Ophelia.

What did he expect?

I don't regret breaking his nose, I don't regret breaking his jaw, I don't regret breaking two of his ribs.

I only regret being caught.