"I hate him! I want to fucking kill that monster!" I roared in anger, repeatedly punching the wall.
*PUNCH!
*PUNCH!
*PUNCH!
All those revelations, all those lies, all those deceptions. He's the person who ruined my life.
Finally, I stopped after feeling the pain in my fist. As I checked my hands, I saw my knuckles bleeding. It was somewhat ironic; I had been so consumed by anger that I'd forgotten how painful it could be to punch a solid wall, even after unleashing my fury on someone to the brink of death.
The wall, on the other hand, had become a canvas for my crimson blood. It was as if it had absorbed all my anger and was now reflecting it back to me. The patterns of my knuckles made it look like some absurd masterpiece you'd see on TV, the kind that art collectors would pay millions for. Who knew my rage and fist could turn me into an accidental artist?
