Resentment

Another morning came. The sun filtered in through the satin grey curtains of his small bedroom window. Stretching and yawning, he climbed out of his loft bed and opened up the curtains, letting the sunlight envelop him. For the millionth time, his brain reminded him how much he hated this. The gleaming cars neatly parked, the people trudging to work, the depthless, cloudless sky being the ugliest blue he had ever seen, the characterless, bland apartment buildings designed to cram as many humans into as small a space as possible, with their squealing, vapid children. It was a bright sunny day in a typical corner of suburbia. No one seemed too bother by it, except him. And, boy, was he aware of this.

He felt his jaw set and his teeth grind as he balled up his fists at hides until his knuckles were white and straining against his wheatish skin. He could feel a deep, throaty shout building up inside of him, a shout he would never be able to dispel or his mother would wake up and come after him. His stupid, stupid mother. No, there was really nothing he could do as the resentment inside him grew larger and larger and he could feel it pressing out in his torso. It wanted out. He wished he could claw at himself, tear up his flesh and let whatever it was ooze out onto the tiled floor, away from him, down the drain into whatever it wished to infect next. Sadly, these were only fantasies that he liked to entertain now and then. He was not some schizophrenic fuck. He was not delusional. There was a clear distinction, for him, between fantasy and reality. Every single day, as he clambered out of bed, he waited for this line to blur, to let the things that were inside his mind out into the world so they they could be with him and fill up the empty spaces. Anything but emptiness. Even monsters would do.