It’s not like anything he was used to, or anything that’s supposed to be there on a day to day basis. It was more than a black cloud that followed him around. The cloud was there when he was smiling, or when he would have the momentary laugh or two of the day. It was more like hot tar inside him, slowly burning away his thought process. The tar slowed everything he was thinking, making it hard for the words he wanted to say to come out right. He began to avoid the subject altogether because when he tried to speak the words out loud it never sounded quite like he wanted it to. The smallest things made the tar much hotter, making it boil up inside of him, slowly taking over. It started with his fingers, forcing him to curl them up into fists. It crawled up his forearms and as he tensed up it continued up his arms. Sticking tightly to his skin it began to reach his broad shoulders and makes the journey both across his chest and up his throat, causing him to feel the heat more intensely and began to make him feel as if he was being choked. It continued up making it feel as if there was a lump in his throat until it reached his mouth. Suddenly he was shouting and arguing over something that probably wasn’t worth it. As he began to feel defenseless, he began to swing at things he knew shouldn’t break. He smashed at wall until the drywall cracked beneath his knuckles, so he turned to his dresser. By the time he realized the dresser is more solid than he originally thought, he felt the tar instantly recede back. As the tar retreated from its trap on the outside, his nervous system kicked into gear and he felt pain in his hand. The throbbing is the only thing keeping the rage from coming back. He swore he heard something crack, but he was not sure what it was.
When he woke the next morning he seemed extra groggy, possibly from nights of no sleep, or maybe it’s because he was pushed over the edge and used the last ounce of his energy. As he rolled over and pushed himself out of bed, he stop because he could feel the pressure of something in his hand, a sharp pain that ran halfway up his right forearm. As he glanced at his hand he realized the true damage of the dresser, it defeated him. For the first time, he managed to bruise his ring and pinky fingers from the second knuckle, down to his wrist. He could still move his fingers around, but slowly and cautiously with the pain becoming more intense with every movement. He had only told one person about his stupidity to hit that dresser, and about his hand swelling. The rest would either notice or see it on Twitter, but since not many people were his friend on there, he guessed that one person would be the only one to know.