I’d like to make you coffee every morning. Morning, noon, nighttime, daybreak… At any hour, whenever you want it. I know how much you enjoy a hot cup of joe; I know that it helps you write and work.
Speaking of work, I’d like to tell you to get some sleep. I’d get mad that you’re still up at 4AM and nag you to go to bed. You’d think that I don’t understand that you need to work, but I’d just be worried about your health.
It was a steakhouse, a block away from where I worked. The entire place was wall-to-wall wood: tables, chairs, even the candleholders. It appeared cozy and familiar, the perfect place to have a hearty, comforting meal after I had another rough day at work.
“I’ll have the filet mignon, please,” I ordered. “Well-done.”
The quiet laughter and conversation of the other diners rang loud in my ears. I felt their lightness weighing down on the hollowness inside of me, more painful than the physical pangs of hunger.
Amid the steady hum of passing buses rises the dissonance of raised voices. The midnight quiet broken by clashing cacophonies, symphonies of shouts.
I lick the droplets of blood from between the cracks of my lips before twisting my mouth open into a snarl. My words, I wield as weapons: their sole purpose is to inflict pain. The scars I am leaving behind are monuments of every pause, every punctuation, that has drawn blood.