Crushed Glass

The tiny glass bottle shatters in his hands, spilling blood as well as perfume. The pain is not as blinding as he would have hoped. Tiny pinpricks make him see stars dumped throughout the usual state of reality in his mind. He breathes in deeply and exhales.

Gritting his teeth, he clenches his fist and cries out silently in something between pain and ecstasy. His mouth forms a circle.

He breathes in the escaped perfume. Bittersweet, it pierces his heart. It smells of her. She's gone and it smells of her and now the bottle is broken and he has nothing left of her but whatever scars the glass leaves behind in his hand and the memories he has. There is nothing else. Nothing tangible.

He cringes when a particularly sharp fragment of glass digs into his palm.

He slowly opens his hand, hisses through clenched teeth. Raw and bloody. Broken. His hand looks like minced meat, dribbled with a rich sauce. Translucent pieces of various sizes provide flavour.

It stings.

A crazy grin pulls at his lips and he lets out a snort of laughter. She's gone. She is gone and has moved on and probably doesn't give a damn about him anymore (he doesn't blame her) and he is here.

He is a mess and just destroyed the last thing that held meaning to him. He clears the glass from his wound but doesn't bandage it immediately. He wants the pain to numb him first.