ISAIAH
My knuckles split the moment they hit the wall, but I didn’t stop. Pain was easier than the storm in my chest, easier than the thought of her with him. Easier than the way she held me, looked at me, wanted me, but I couldn’t do anything about it.
I hit the wall, again, again and again. The blood staining the wall and dripping down my fingers. The sight excited me. It distracted me from the heavy lump in my throat, or the pain reverberating through my body.
“Oh my God.” Martha shrieked. “Look at what you have done to yourself, Mal’chik moy.” She wrapped a warm cloth around my knuckles, her face lifted in horror. While I stood there, eyes glued to the blood on my white walls as I imagined it was Noel’s head I was bashing in.
“Why do this to yourself again and again!?” Martha cried
