Plates
I walk into the room full of plates. They look clean and pretty, placed on the shelves. Each plate has its own place, sitting there elegantly.
I pick up one of the plates. This doesn't feel right. I smash it on the ground. The sound of shattering glass fills the room with an eerie atmosphere. This is not supposed to happen.
I pick up another one, this time I throw it with all the strength I got. Shards of glass come flying into my body, but I don't care.
I keep going, the next plate, and then another one, and another, until the shelves are empty.
The ground is now full of shattered glass and blood.
Stepping on the pieces with my bare feet burns like hell, but I don't care.
I scream and scream and scream until my throat starts bleeding. And I fall to the ground.
I lie on the now red painted ground, out of breath with a scratched throat. I start choking on my own blood. None of this felt right.
Hours pass of nothing but deadly silence. But then I finally move my hand. Is it my hand? I start pushing myself off the ground. Every inch of skin touching the glass aches as I press my weight onto it. I stand up, my whole body dripping red.
I have to clean this up now.