I rage, hurling anything I lay hand on against the impenetrable blankness of a stone wall. The sound of breaking glass echos the sharp edges of my pain.
“What fools these mortals be…” the quote runs through my head, dulling the crystal rims of hurt with ironic humor. If that immortal playwright only knew how many people would interpret his words… I wouldn’t be the first, or the last.
I hurl yet another object against the wall, and this one shatters, shards of glass bouncing off the wall and slicing me as open as my feelings. Blood runs down my face, the rawness of my flesh mirroring the open wounds of my soul.
I raise a finger and wipe the blood slowly running down the side of my face. It smells of iron, and old earth. My stomach churns, and I sink to my heels, balancing in the wreckage I’ve caused.