White knuckles are crowns upon hands that wrap around the purest kind of hostility.
They stretch the skin until it peels back and tears at the seams, showing the brilliant whiteness of the bone, tendon, and connective tissue beneath.
“Breathe” repeats in the mind as a mantra to ease the fire. The body follows in meditative misdirection.
These breaths wreak of sulfur and ash, bringing only a boiling core from the depths of a scorn trembling torso.
Looking at the sky with his head as far back as his spine will allow, he screams in anguish.
His mouth does not stop opening.
Wider and wider until the sight is grotesque before the organic structure can take no more, and snaps; creating a noise comparable to a violin being snapped in half.
A bubble of white emerges from the torn open wound that was once his neck and shoulders.
The bubble grows larger until a face can be seen within the distortion of the mess.
It is him. The very same man.
Only now with determination on his gaze and a grim sort of demeanor.
A thousand of his former selves are shadowed by the thing that was inside.
Looking at the sky once more, his head tilts back…
Hysterically, he laughs…