It shatters in a brilliant explosion of glass and alcohol.
Your heart pounds in your chest.
There's nothing but rage.
But there's nothing to turn this rage toward.
Nothing. Nobody but… yourself.
You fall to your knees. You grasp a glass shard in your hand.
It tears into your wrist. Again and again.
Blood coats your arm, but you just keep cutting.
With every cut, the rage dissipates. The frustration and anger is expelled, directed at yourself. You can't hold it in anymore. You just can't.
Your palm is scratched up by the jagged shard almost as much as your wrists are.
By the time you've regained control of yourself, your hand and wrist are a patchwork of cuts, coated in your own blood.
Lucidity returns to you, and you throw down the shard in disgust. You raise your hands in front of your face and stare at your own self-inflicted damage.
After a moment, you sigh deeply and lower your arms, letting them fall into your lap.