Post by YukiTen on Feb 7, 2011 13:50:44 GMT -7
Death To You
by MOYA
He was an angry man. Always throwing things without a care, shattering them, depending on what it was. It could’ve been a glass lamp or a porcelain plate, a chair, a bone, you name it. He broke it. He mangled it. He strangled and stabbed it. He bled-out and destroyed it. The worst part was, he didn’t particularly care. He didn’t care if it was his own daughter’s bones that he broke. He didn’t care if it was own bones he broke. He’d just blame it on someone else and be done with it, take another sip of his whiskey. The bruises along his knuckles should have been a clear sign that it was his fault to begin with. But he was a stubborn middle-aged man, with some personality malfunctions and a drinking problem. Even then, he didn’t care. He had problems, ones he wasn’t willing to address, ones that broke people down and obliterated them. He didn’t care.
I’d imagine someone like you, so calm and collected, sitting alone in your room, minding your own business with a book in your nimble, elegant hands. Each word, sentence, paragraph passing through your sharp mind as you read, ignorant of all possible distractions. You flip the page and continue the cycle of words, sentences, paragraphs, and ignorance. Until, of course, your door creaks unnaturally loud and in stumbles a drunken, infuriated man with a broken bottle in his rough and bruised palm.
The look on your face would be of confusion and surprise at first, then it would move on to something such as intense fear and rigidness. You would bring up your knees and scoot away, under the bed, in your closet, possibly out the window- oh, but it has black, wrought iron bars crossing and bending all over the outside of it. You frowned the biggest and saddest frown you could, watching with a rat-caught-in-a-mouse-trap expression in your lips, eyes, and body as that man limped and stumbled over to your quivering body.
He had his own look. His bloodshot eyes searching your body for a point of weakness as he tried to discover what he wanted to do in his violent and intoxicated state of mind. You gave another tremble. He saw that as a queue to let loose his rage. And so, he did. He took one more step toward you, and lunged.
You never thought you could hurt so bad. His fists landed numerous, unforgiving blows to your face, waves of a fiery agony shooting throughout your skull. He shoved his heel into your throat, his toes between your ribs, and his knees into your stomach. You coulda swore you’d vomit up a bucket of blood or whatever you ate that night if this went on any longer. Your ribs felt like they were shattering. Your stomach felt like it would burst. Your head felt like it was going to explode in a pool of a brainy, bloody fluid.
He decided it best to grab your wrists to keep you from trying to fight back, seeing as how you began to slap and scratch at his face. He twisted them and twisted them and twisted them until you screamed. You were holding your loud screeches of pain until now. He forced them to brake, ready to work his way up and shatter your forearms.
It was then you started to cry, and seeing this, he landed a downward blow to your nose. Just like that, the screaming had stopped, the tears had stopped, your flailing and struggling had stopped. But the bleeding and the bruising and the breaking were far from over. He’d just keep going until there was nothing left of the woman that birthed his children.
