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By the time I got to their house, I was fucking gone.

My boots hit the porch steps. Rage was all I felt. Rage, and the sick hollow misery that ate my organs alive.

My hand grabbed the doorknob. It was locked, but not for long. I ripped the metal clean out of the frame. Wood chips sprayed the air. My muscles didn’t even hurt. I was past pain, past tired. I moved like something already dead, and it felt just right. I kicked in the door. It hit the wall so hard a picture fell and shattered. Fuck pictures. Fuck your happy home, Brandon.

Once I was inside the living room, I screamed into the empty house, a ragged thing that made my throat tear itself bloody.

I kicked the coffee table. It flipped, bottles clattering, coasters flying. I wanted to smash every inch of the house. I wanted to burn it to the ground with him inside of it while I watched from outside.

My fist hit a wall, then punched it again, and again, until the drywall caved. My knuckles turned purple. Lines of blood dripped from the cuts, but I didn’t care. I didn’t feel it. Only the hot throb inside my head, the pressure building, building, building⁠—

I screamed until my voice ran out. My feet stomped holes in the floor. I went to the kitchen and threw every dish I could find, shattering them. The glass crunched under my boots like bird bones. I wanted more noise. I wanted every neighbor outside to peek out and see the monster, see what real rage looked like under the lights.

She was gone. My bluebird. He took her away. She was mine, really mine for a moment at the farmhouse, and then he ruined everything. He ruined everything.

Even after I ruined him, it wouldn’t be enough. Never enough.

Another scream. My eyes leaked tears. I tore at my hair, fisted it until the roots ached.

If I had to destroy the world to get her back, I would.

I saw a glass jar on the table. I grinned. It was perfect. I’d fill it up with something just for her.

I paced over and over. Slamming my shoulder into the wall, denting it with my weight. I tore down doors, cabinets, anything not bolted. I stomped the bathroom sink until it split, porcelain like chewing candy. My hands trembled. My chest convulsed. The world around me faded.

That’s when I heard a car. I peered through the curtain. Brandon.

Red rose in my vision. Inky, boiling. It hissed in my head. I surged to the door and waited just inside, hulking close to the wall, my breath coming hard and hot through the monster’s mouth.

He walked up the steps. I wondered if he would scream when he saw me.

He opened the newly broken door. Eyes wide. Saw me, saw the mess around the house.

“What the fuck,” he spat. “Are you crazy? Get the fuck out of my house, man.”

He didn’t even flinch. Bastards like him thought they owned the world.

I moved fast. Rage let me float. I hurled him backwards, his back smashing against the entryway. The sound was meaty, bone and skin and drywall all at once. He got up, wild, ready for a fight.

“You want to go, you psycho fuck?” He rushed me and slammed a fist into my jaw. I didn’t care. I let him hit me. It didn’t even hurt. Not compared to how I wanted to hurt him.

I tackled him. We went down together, his spine cracking against the carpet. He tried to punch again, but I grabbed his arm, twisted it until it popped.

He howled. I wanted him to scream. I wanted the whole world to hear.

“You think you can take from me and get away with it? You think you can fucking break my bluebird and not pay for it? You think you can kill my child and walk away without punishment?” My voice was a snarl. I beat his head against the tile, once, again. His nose split open. Blood everywhere. Beautiful.

“I knew it was you, you fucking bastard!”

He rolled and tried to get up to tackle me, but I kicked him back down. I kicked him in the ribs.

He came at me a last time. A real push. Then I decked him, hard, fist to temple.

It rattled his brain. He reeled sideways. Flopped down next to the dining table. I moved after him, dragging him upright with a fistful of his hair.

He clawed at me, tried to bite, but couldn’t make his hands work. He was dizzy, half here, half gone. I wanted him awake for the good part.

I dragged him through his own house. Smeared his blood on the walls, the banister, anywhere I could reach. Out came the duct tape I found earlier in his own kitchen drawer.