Song for the Dumped
It started calmly. Jack walked to his room, opened the door and entered. Pinot was on the bed cleaning herself. Jack nodded, looked down, shuffled his feet, and and swinging his arm slammed the door shut, rattling the drawers and the paintings on the wall. Pinot looked up sharply and hissed. Jack disregarded her, pulled one of the paintings off the wall and threw it towards a chair.
Pinot went dashing to the bathroom. Jack zoned in on the drawers.
First thing first: all loose items on top of the drawers. The clock, the box containing his watch, the box containing his pen, the container holding his spare writing utensils--all these were removed by one sweep of the arm, his free hand clutched on the edge of the mirror. His elbow went swinging into the mirror, his hand punching out the glass that was left, his hands bloody. He moved on to the drawer shelves, pulling them out with vigorous force, throwing them across the room, his clothes flying out the shelves as they soared towards the walls.
It was exhilarating feeling nothing but blind rage, exhilarating to destroy rather than to build up things that would crumble regardless the sturdiness of foundation. Jack's hands ripped drawer from drawer until there were no more shelves to throw, moved on to the bed, wondered when he had touched hand to mouth or cut his lips to taste blood.
Jack growled as he tore off the sheets and flipped over the mattresses. Figuring he wasn't foolish enough to (fall in love again) decimate the bed frame, he made his way through the room, kicking whatever was in his way, ripping apart clothes, smearing them with blood. Frantically, he whipped around and ran to the bathroom. Pinot dashed past him, into the filthy room, as he keeled over and vomited on the bathroom tile.
As he hovered over the floor, shaking, sweating, wondering how he could clean up the mess, he also vowed never to see her again. Let her have her bohemian. He was too busy being bourgeois.
Pinot went dashing to the bathroom. Jack zoned in on the drawers.
First thing first: all loose items on top of the drawers. The clock, the box containing his watch, the box containing his pen, the container holding his spare writing utensils--all these were removed by one sweep of the arm, his free hand clutched on the edge of the mirror. His elbow went swinging into the mirror, his hand punching out the glass that was left, his hands bloody. He moved on to the drawer shelves, pulling them out with vigorous force, throwing them across the room, his clothes flying out the shelves as they soared towards the walls.
It was exhilarating feeling nothing but blind rage, exhilarating to destroy rather than to build up things that would crumble regardless the sturdiness of foundation. Jack's hands ripped drawer from drawer until there were no more shelves to throw, moved on to the bed, wondered when he had touched hand to mouth or cut his lips to taste blood.
Jack growled as he tore off the sheets and flipped over the mattresses. Figuring he wasn't foolish enough to (fall in love again) decimate the bed frame, he made his way through the room, kicking whatever was in his way, ripping apart clothes, smearing them with blood. Frantically, he whipped around and ran to the bathroom. Pinot dashed past him, into the filthy room, as he keeled over and vomited on the bathroom tile.
As he hovered over the floor, shaking, sweating, wondering how he could clean up the mess, he also vowed never to see her again. Let her have her bohemian. He was too busy being bourgeois.