Just gonna stand there
and watch me burn?
because I like the way it hurts
--Eminem ft. Rihanna, I Love the Way You Lie
He tapped the pencil to the ticking of the clock.
Exploded graphite and wood stained the paper brown and black. He grabbed the nearest thing, a book, and winged it across the room. It dented the wall and flopped onto the floor bent in a messed up fan.
The clock paused for two heartbeats.
Then, the march of time restarted.
He turned on the television. Turned it off. The molten metal in his veins wanted to throw the remote too, but that would be an unfortunate thing to break.
Instead, he piled some of her things in the kitchen sink. Notes. Pictures. Things she made for him.
He lit the match and watched the flame erupt. The brightness made the stick twist and crack. Agonized cinders.
He pinched the searing heat without wetting his fingers and rushed out of the apartment down to the city. The little tides of chaos in the streets soothed him. They distracted all the storms raging in his head.