This Doesn't Hurt
Just An Expirement
“Just an experiment,” you whisper in your head. You growl out, throw a lamp. Chuckle to yourself as the sparks create a theatrical effect you didn’t expect. Throw in a slap for good measure as your hand whips across the face in front of you, the bruise spreading in a strangely beautiful way as it stains the pale skin of her face. A smirk etches itself across your face as you see the addition of another twenty minutes spent on make up in the morning.
Your brow furrows as you scream out accusations. You shove her to the ground, dirt tangling into her hair. “Do you feel like a man?” your conscious whispers in the back of your brain. You stop to watch her cringe into the ground. It’s all her fault. If she hadn’t stuck around you wouldn’t have to do this.
She stands to her feet, a tear trickles down your cheek as you watch them stream down hers. Why did she stand up? She knows what will happen now! A blur of a fist, no, your fist, rips into your vision as it smashes into her, time and time again. She’s on the ground again, and you are praying to a God you don’t really believe in that she won’t get up so that you don’t have to keep going. She presses a palm to the ground and raises her head, eyes closed, and hair tumbling away from her face. Your vision bleeds an infectious red as you realize she’s standing to her feet. She’s trembling and swaying and yet still you must continue on. The blows and curses and accusations, a repetitive, destructive melody as your fists burry themselves into her fragile skin, your mind forgetting any earlier convictions as it screams, “Make her bleed, make her bleed!”
The finale finally comes, as you punch her in the stomach once, and then again for good-measure, then your knee connects with her chin as she begins to crumble. Your brain, still in the exhilarating throws of power, snickers a hissing, elongated ‘timber,’ and you find it being shoved out from between your lips, hovering in the air in a poisonous way. She’s face down in the dirt, and you are walking away, thanking the Lord that you’ve finally had your way. You leave her a broken mess, and she whispers into the ground, repeating it as though the number of times she says it will affect if it becomes reality or not. “This doesn’t hurt.” The blood mingling with the sweat and the tears on your knuckles is a testament to her lie.
“Wonder when she’ll have enough?” Your mind is finally back to being sane again as the tears began to drip down, traversing the distance between your eyes and the ground. But there’s still some dark hidden shadow of you, tucked away in a corner where you can’t see, that is loving the feel of blood on your knuckles, and the power you had, that is wishing that it could come out again, and making plans for its next show, still feeling smug over its initial debut.
Your brow furrows as you scream out accusations. You shove her to the ground, dirt tangling into her hair. “Do you feel like a man?” your conscious whispers in the back of your brain. You stop to watch her cringe into the ground. It’s all her fault. If she hadn’t stuck around you wouldn’t have to do this.
She stands to her feet, a tear trickles down your cheek as you watch them stream down hers. Why did she stand up? She knows what will happen now! A blur of a fist, no, your fist, rips into your vision as it smashes into her, time and time again. She’s on the ground again, and you are praying to a God you don’t really believe in that she won’t get up so that you don’t have to keep going. She presses a palm to the ground and raises her head, eyes closed, and hair tumbling away from her face. Your vision bleeds an infectious red as you realize she’s standing to her feet. She’s trembling and swaying and yet still you must continue on. The blows and curses and accusations, a repetitive, destructive melody as your fists burry themselves into her fragile skin, your mind forgetting any earlier convictions as it screams, “Make her bleed, make her bleed!”
The finale finally comes, as you punch her in the stomach once, and then again for good-measure, then your knee connects with her chin as she begins to crumble. Your brain, still in the exhilarating throws of power, snickers a hissing, elongated ‘timber,’ and you find it being shoved out from between your lips, hovering in the air in a poisonous way. She’s face down in the dirt, and you are walking away, thanking the Lord that you’ve finally had your way. You leave her a broken mess, and she whispers into the ground, repeating it as though the number of times she says it will affect if it becomes reality or not. “This doesn’t hurt.” The blood mingling with the sweat and the tears on your knuckles is a testament to her lie.
“Wonder when she’ll have enough?” Your mind is finally back to being sane again as the tears began to drip down, traversing the distance between your eyes and the ground. But there’s still some dark hidden shadow of you, tucked away in a corner where you can’t see, that is loving the feel of blood on your knuckles, and the power you had, that is wishing that it could come out again, and making plans for its next show, still feeling smug over its initial debut.