He got up. His emotionless face focused on the red glass. He glided his fingers against the edges. Little droplets of blood oozed from his fingertips. In one fluid motion his anger ignited and he punched the blood tainted glass. The window now dented toward the outer world; it trying to escape the prison it forms.
He grabbed a piece of broken glass. The new blood mixing with the already stained fragment. He straightened up and looked the masked figure in the eyes.
BANG
BANG BANG
Every hit and scathe left their mark, but none pained them as much as the explosion expanding in his mind and the overwhelming emotions ripping apart his heart. He ran, dodging what bullets he could, till he was face to face with the figure. He was in autopilot. His limbs punching on their own. The blood on his knuckles not registering into his clouded mind.
He didn't stop. Not when the silhouette fell with a thud. Not when the body beneath him went limp.
He kept going until his shoulders turned stone stiff and he collapsed onto the blood and flesh beneath him. Realization of the glass still in his clenched fist seeps into his mind. Blood escaping the the gashes created from the fragment. The pain from the cuts releasing tension within his thoughts. The blood being a tangible understanding of the pain he endures every second of everyday.
Remember I said the bloody glass was the trigger? What exactly do you think it triggered?
YOU ARE READING
Glass
General FictionHe carved stories in his arms. No need for ink, just blood. I am telling this story because it needs to be told. He would've wanted me to tell it, so people know what he went through that caused him to take his life. I warn you that this is a trigge...
