Chirag Ranawat

The door slammed shut, the sound a violent punctuation mark to the rage boiling inside me.  "Fucking marriage," I snarled, the words ripping from my throat like a feral growl.  My fist clenched, knuckles white, and I slammed it into the wall.  Not a controlled impact, but a raw, animalistic release of fury.  Bone met plaster with a sickening crack, the force of the blow reverberating up my arm.  A jolt of white-hot pain shot through me, a welcome assault on my senses.  I didn't flinch.  Didn't even wince.  I welcomed the agony, the sharp, clean sting a stark contrast to the festering rot inside.  Looking down, I saw the skin split, a crimson flower blooming against the pale wallpaper.  Blood welled, thick and dark, trickling down my knuckles and onto the floor.  Each throb of pain was a hammer blow against the cage of my frustration, a temporary reprieve from the darkness threatening to consume me. I flexed my fingers, watching the blood ooze and the skin pull taut.  The pain was a fire in my veins, burning away the edges of reason, leaving behind only the raw, primal urge to destroy.