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“White”: The wooden Shiv
This is not a story of violence.
Tight in the chest, his limbs can barley move. He takes a deep breath, and before ending it, he bursts into an unstoppable cough. On his feet now: he breaks an old piece of his wooden coat hanger; dried scraps of white paint and splinters fall all over his bare toes. His vision is unpaired and his balance swings from side to side, lights keep on switching on and off. The neighbors must think the apartment is haunted or something. He finally makes it to the doorway, his fist still pressing hard on the broken piece of wood. His fingers are starting to bleed. He opens the door slowly and feels a strong rush of air current push him back, he looks down and realizes he is at least at 1000ft height. His apartment is floating in the middle of the sky, nothing supporting it. Slamming back the balcony door he feels the anger slowly come back, now breathing gets harder, his animal instincts are creeping, almost drooling like a crazed chimp. So he runs inside, passed the kitchen, into his once meticulously decorated living room, destroying everything on his path like Godzilla. He can feel it, directly like an injection to his veins, the adrenaline. He flips the table over in one uncontrolled movement, he smashes the shelves and with his bloody wooden shiv tears into oblivion his colorful persian sofa. Heavy breathed, he is crazed by blood, his body has suffered more damage than his own house, he is trapped in his self-created hell. So, he punches like a digging dog into his white drywall, it’s not a clean action and takes many minutes to finally make a dent. His fingers are now unrecognizable, crushed the shiv now forms part of his own body.
In this raged crazed frenzy, time has lost all faculty and dimension. So, the man runs trough the front door and blasts into static thin air.
Remember this is not a story of violence.
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