no subject

[ White noise and blood-shot. His skull strung with tension.

Fist gone rigid, pressure at his knuckles.

Fucking dramatics.

Fucking obstinance.

Fucking—

What does she think she—

Thinks she can.

Thinks she can simply.

Pressure, everything clamped inward, muscles coiled, his teeth ground together.

A minor shattering he scarcely registers. His phone in pieces on the floor.

He's standing. Bends to press a hand into the pieces, sharp small bites, deeper as he slams his palm downward.

Make certain the fucking device never speaks again.

And stride from the room. In search of prey, a neck to break, veins to stain the cellar.

No sight, no thought, no moment for reflection.

She isn't worth his fucking time. ]