ARTHUR
The first thing to go was the lamp.
I didn’t remember deciding to throw it—only the sharp, violent satisfaction as it shattered against the far wall, glass bursting outward like a gunshot. The room rang with it. Then came the rest. Papers swept from the desk in one brutal motion. A chair overturned. The edge of a drawer ripped clean from its track and hurled hard enough to splinter on impact.
But I didn’t stop there; the need for carn*ge carried me forward, unstoppable.
By the time the rage burned itself down to something usable, my office looked like a crime scene. Wood cracked. Glass ground into the carpet. Hole in the walls all over, and one of the framed certificates—some meaningless recognition my father had once insisted on hanging—hung crooked, its corner split from the i
