Short Story: Cornered

He gave himself nightmares.

He woke up and slid out.
His pillows on the floor.
Walked into the bathroom, punched the mirror.
Blood and broken glass.
His head hung low like plastic testicles on a truck axle.
The corners of a smile.

Television images flickering in his braincase. He hummed a familiar tune.
He checked his email.

He wrapped a paper towel around his knuckles, a vain attempt. It soon fell off.

He had woken later than usual. But he wasn't late. It was Saturday.
The house was empty.

Coffee.
He poured some raisin bran.

The computer on the table while he chewed nonchalantly. (He hated that word.)
The corners of a smile.

When he was done he took a shower and sang and hummed and marched and stomped and rinsed and washed.

Drying off but the blood was still coming from his hand.

Saturday.
He lay on the bed again, watching television.

He got irritated; he decided to write a letter.

His handwriting, neat. His style, perfect. His meaning, soon to be misconstrued.

It was addressed to no one and he didn't sign it. It read:
"I love, miss, and cherish you."

Then he scratched it out seventeen angry times and kind of angrily wrinkled the paper up a bit, and then with an escalating quantity of anger burnt the letter with a disposable lighter. He had done this a lot, and the lighter was empty after this time, so he angrily threw it away. The lighter was obviously upset, but was aware of its brevity.

The paper, however, was offended, and would have preferred a recycling process.

The ballpoint pen had no opinion on the matter.

The man, however, was very, very angry. That cannot be stressed enough.

He was always this way on Saturdays. Before he did anything fun he made himself hurt. Then there wasn't any time for fun so he just watched TV. Then that got boring so he would write stuff.

Like this.

He would write stuff like this.