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Maybe you were having a mental breakdown.
And it was fundamentally meaningless.
Some of your teeth were splattered across the floor. The table smelt like...well, wood; the winter air was crisp inside your lungs, throat, whatever, with an ice and pine scent.
The handle of the hammer felt lighter in your hand than the head of it, leaning down with the terrestrial gravity and the gravity of the situation.
You tried, like, the day was going "ok", nothing really happened! You went outside, had breakfast, studied, even talked to some people! but then you were alone in your dingy little kitchen, tiles with a shine of dirt sparkled on them and you just felt...free; sat on your chair, hammer in one hand, a cup of coffee burning your hand in the other, college papers in your backpack and then...realized that hitting yourself on the face with a hammer hurts like a mother fucker.
Like a veiny, pulsating, throbbing rock of pain right in your face, actually, but the hammer was there, sitting there, on the table, alone!, alluring, seductive, begging you even.
The magic, nagging, vivid image of it in your mind, the fire in your loins, and the adrenaline that made your heart pump came crashing down as you texted on your phone for someone to come for you. Maybe take you to eat something, then to the hospital, then an extra visit to the psychologist, psychiatrist, yada yada, Rinse and repeat.
Your cat arched its back, watching you from the other chair close to the fridge; it yawned, licked its lips, and sat down again; your apartment had the distinctive smell of bleach.
"How was your day?." You mumbled, to create a sense of normalcy.
The fur of its chin felt nice under your fingertips, your jaw was hurting, and it smelt like metal, yet your worries went away as the kitty cat stretched and leaned its head back against the pets, a blueish glow from the Moonlight and another more colorful from the TV against its silhouette, making the tips of its hait glow like a fairy.
"Good?." You mumbled again, looking at the TV; crystals from amethyst to aquamarine that you acquired on road trips or whatever littered on the floor, some figurines here and there, a mildly dirty broom against your chair.
Adulting was hard.
Your mind, for once, was empty as your finger went over one of the tiny drops of blood on the table; painting a circle, then painting a star inside of it. The violence you felt against yourself disappeared for a few minutes. You could enjoy it until next time.
The coffee touching your lips was hot as the summer, bitter like you. The wood was a bit cold as you lay the right side of your face on it, sticky spots clinging to your skin, slowly closing your eyes as the TV went on about reality shows and botched cosmetic surgeries, the winter breeze against your lashes as Somnus took you with gentleness in his arms.
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