[ rage has always been his flaw, but it is so often an unending, replenishing source. her words press with impossible weight on him; it's the weight of the truth: of his resentment, of his wrath and helplessness. for a moment he thinks he might implode from it. dark veins reach for his eyes and his gums itch. his fist smashes against the mirror and it cracks, the lines sharp and reaching upwards.
shaking, he replies. ]
I'm going to enjoy playing with what's left of your innards. Perhaps I'll string them up in his room along with your broken body.
But I think I'll present your heart. A lovely trophy of what's left of your love after I'm through with you.
no subject
shaking, he replies. ]
I'm going to enjoy playing with what's left of your innards. Perhaps I'll string them up in his room along with your broken body.
But I think I'll present your heart. A lovely trophy of what's left of your love after I'm through with you.