The Song of Personal Violence
February 06, 2017 - 144 words
Gratzman’s jaw clenched. It was over! It was done! He laughed all the way home. Not so much laughed as screamed. Screaming was his thing. He’d forgotten why but he enjoyed the way the harsh gruesome roars shredded his throat. It was a pink rawness that made him feel alive. Nobody was alive these days.
Scream. DO IT. Scream as loud as you can in your car on your eighty-minute commute that sends you back and forth between your two safety boxes. Let it erupt like a salvo from a GATLING GUN. Your vision will blur and vibrate and your blood will SING. Then scream again. Feel it break your world apart! It’s like a drug for the morally conscious.
Scream with a friend. He’d always wanted to try that but that required a willing friend. It also required a friend. He had neither.