This is an unpolished piece of writing I did back in Texas. Actually, the only writing I did in Texas. Trying to continue on with Cohorts has been a challenge for me in the last year. I'm trying to get back into it, but until I write something more complete, here is this.
With a loud clash, the door bursted open, while contents held by a gaunt man flooded out onto the floor. No hand reached down to retrieve the items, instead a forceful kick forced the stack of folders and papers to explode into the air, scattering across the entire flat.
In the cloud of stirred-up debris, the angry man, in a violent rage, began to tear apart the decor of the home.
He picked up a lamp and tossed it across the living room. A glass cabinet with awards were heaved also it the center of the room, but as it shattered, his hand was deeply cut in the commotion, which only inflamed his temper.
He continued through the room until everything was sufficiently smashed. Afterwards, his rampage continued into the office. His hands reached out for everything he could grasp, and the pattern of destruction continued with a relentless pursuit.
He reached the fireplace, and through his frustration and wrath, managed to spark a cinder. He dashed over toward a stack of bound papers. Without looking at them, he started feeding the flames with his work.
The fire grew too slowly for him. He grabbed a can of lighter fluid and dumped it on top of the flames, causing the fire to grow wild. He returned to the papers and continued on with the mayhem.
Finally, all the manuscripts had met their fate. He redirected his attention to an old Royal typewriter, sitting on the middle of the desk. His eyes looked of madness as his gaze fell upon it.
His tempo changed and his movement resembled a predator stalking its prey. As he stalked in front of it, his hands swooped down and clamped down on it with an unbreakable grip.
He lifted it off the desk, keeping his focus set upon it. He walked back toward the fireplace, with his intentions clear. His pain all started with this machine, and now he must end it.
The red and amber blaze reflected in the darkness of his eyes. Blood from his hands baptized the black iron casing of the typewriter. He lifted the damned device over his head and closed his eyes, feeling the climax of the situation coming to a head.
He inhaled deeply and committed to sacrifice his once beloved instrument. Suddenly, something hit his face. Droplets. Coming from above. He looked up and witnessed the typewriter…bleeding.
His unquenchable rage transformed into something else. Something surprising. His eyes widened and his mind opened, as if he had seen the face of god.
He pulled the machine into his arms and saw it bleeding. In that moment, his perspective changed as did his mind. A revelation exploded in his soul. It. She. She was a victim in this too.
Tears welled up in his eyes and he pulled the machine tight to his chest.
His tired voice cracked as he began to speak.
"Look what they've done to us?" He somberly asked.
He looked at her and saw the pain manifested on her through the fires amber glow.
He continued to cradle her and returned her to the desk and sat her back down on the blotter. He grabbed a rag near by, and quickly bandaged his own wounds, then rested his head near the keyboard of the typewriter.
His stream of tears continued as his rage continued to change into mourning and sorrow.
All they had was each other now. Their child was gone.
"I need to hear your voice darling. Please speak to me?" He asked.
He paused for a second, then sat up and reached for the side drawer. As his hand sank into it, he grasped onto a piece of paper and pulled it out of its home.
Without haste, he planted the paper into the feeder of the typewriter and reeled it through. He moved the cursor over to the left and leaned forward towards the page.
"They stole her. They killed our baby." He whimpered.
A silence befell the room, but was soon interrupted by the hammering of the keys.
"WE TRUSTED THEM AND THEY KILLED HER." She said.
"I know, this is all my fault, this would've…"
His words were cut off has the type hammers came lunging down.
"THIS IS NOT YOUR FAULT, DEAR. NONETHELESS, WE MUST RECTIFY THIS ATROCITY?" She said.
"I've already tried everything. I'm lost." He replied.
The keys sparked to life again.
"THAT'S BECAUSE YOU WERE PLAYING THEIR GAME. THIS TIME, THEY WILL PLAY OURS." She said.
His hands ran across his face.
"What must I do?" He asked. "I will do anything you ask."
The keys fired back to life.
"LET THEM ENJOY THIS BRIEF VICTORY AND HAVE THEIR CELEBRATION. SOON, THERE JUBILATION WILL BE SILENCED. THEIR TIME WILL COME." She said.
A bitter laugh escaped his lips, mixed with pain and anger.
"Then, it will be they who burn." He said.
"YES DEAR, THEY WILL BATHE IN THE FIRES OF OUR VENGEANCE."