(no subject)
There was a knock on the door. I knew it couldn't be Emily she worked today. Who was it? I wasn't really worried, probably just the landlord who came by occasionally to keep up a personal relationship with his tenants. I walked to the door, my socks scuffing along the floor. I lit a cigarette, and took a long drag, and opened the door. A fist hit me square in the jaw, and I stumbled a bit as any man would. I realized who had knocked on my door. Who had waited patiently, as I took my sweet ass time. It was him. Her boyfriend. He found out something he never should have. Something no one should have known. He came here to face his biggest problem, and that problem was me. My cigarette had slipped from my hand, and it lay smoking on the floor, still burning.
I was still a bit shaken from the blow, but I had realized he had come in to my home. He took time to shut the door behind him; not slam the door behind him, but shut it quietly, as to not alarm anyone else. I finally struck back. I struck again, and again. Aside from the one blow, this was my fight. My fight for her, to protect her, to love her. I hit again and again. I got lost in the heat of the moment, because for some reason we ended up on the floor. I grabbed his hair. His long blonde hair, and I smashed his face into the floor. Into the cold, hard, unforgiving cement. I did it again, and again. I imagined anyone that had ever done anything hurtful to me. I took every memory, everything that was said to me, that was done to me, out on his face. Everything was silent for a brief moment, all I could hear was my breathing, my heartbeat, my rage. Then I heard it, his face hitting the floor. The bones chipping, and breaking beneath the skin. His nose, his cheeks, his jaw. It had started to cut his face, blood was all over the floor. His hair had become greasy with blood, it started to slip from my hands; so I reached out again. I grabbed anything I could to use as leverage. His shirt, his neck, his ears. Teeth started breaking, they littered the floor. Bicuspids, inscisors, molars. The remnants of teeth still in his gums had bit down on his tongue, a meaty chunk had come bumbling out of his mouth. I had mutilated him. What was left of his face would never be recognized as human again. The cuts, the swelling, the lack of bone structure. I felt satisfied after seeing what I had done to him. Blood had spattered on my hands, and on my face. He had stopped breathing. He had stopped breathing awhile ago, but it didn't stop me. I murdered him. I murdered him for her. I lit up another cigarette, laid in his pool of blood, and inhaled deeply. There was a smirk on my face. Not a smile, but a smirk, I was content. I took another drag, and I fell asleep.
I was still a bit shaken from the blow, but I had realized he had come in to my home. He took time to shut the door behind him; not slam the door behind him, but shut it quietly, as to not alarm anyone else. I finally struck back. I struck again, and again. Aside from the one blow, this was my fight. My fight for her, to protect her, to love her. I hit again and again. I got lost in the heat of the moment, because for some reason we ended up on the floor. I grabbed his hair. His long blonde hair, and I smashed his face into the floor. Into the cold, hard, unforgiving cement. I did it again, and again. I imagined anyone that had ever done anything hurtful to me. I took every memory, everything that was said to me, that was done to me, out on his face. Everything was silent for a brief moment, all I could hear was my breathing, my heartbeat, my rage. Then I heard it, his face hitting the floor. The bones chipping, and breaking beneath the skin. His nose, his cheeks, his jaw. It had started to cut his face, blood was all over the floor. His hair had become greasy with blood, it started to slip from my hands; so I reached out again. I grabbed anything I could to use as leverage. His shirt, his neck, his ears. Teeth started breaking, they littered the floor. Bicuspids, inscisors, molars. The remnants of teeth still in his gums had bit down on his tongue, a meaty chunk had come bumbling out of his mouth. I had mutilated him. What was left of his face would never be recognized as human again. The cuts, the swelling, the lack of bone structure. I felt satisfied after seeing what I had done to him. Blood had spattered on my hands, and on my face. He had stopped breathing. He had stopped breathing awhile ago, but it didn't stop me. I murdered him. I murdered him for her. I lit up another cigarette, laid in his pool of blood, and inhaled deeply. There was a smirk on my face. Not a smile, but a smirk, I was content. I took another drag, and I fell asleep.