This was it. This was the last straw. His hands were in tight fists, his shoulders practically vibrating with tension and the desire to hit him as he glared at the retreating back in front of his. He fought with the urge to run after him and yank him around, slam his fist into the other's face until it was just a bloody ruin. He couldn't. No more. Not now, not ever again. But if he didn't do something to rid himself of this sudden blinding rage--it wasn't even caused by the other, really--he would snap. Again. He turned and slammed his fists into the brick wall in front of him. Again. And again. And again..
He alternated left with right, ripping both of his hands to shreds on the rough brick. Blood trickled down his arms, puddled on the ground. His knuckles were split. He kept pounding the wall, ignoring the pain-not really even feeling it. Finally he stopped.
He had actually broken a finger. Didn't care. He had to do something to relieve the anger.. to take his mind off the pain inside him. He had vowed to not do it the way he had before. This way was better.. for now. He turned and walked toward his house to get his hand taken care of, resolutely leaving the object in his back pocket alone. He had promised, and he kept his promises.. but could he keep this one? How much longer could he live with the pain inside him before he tried to end it?
As he turned, his sleeve pulled up, revealing the web of scars on his wrist, and the sun glinted off the silver, metallic object in his pocket.