He sat in the lounge, in a state of charged emotion, looking around. Too fraught to cry. And scared at the lack of inhibition that this would bring.

Next to the door. It was the yellow paint that caught his eye, just inside the carrier back waiting for the next donation to the charity shop. An old car security lock, working, but too small to fit the new car. He moved.

Back in the seat, crooklock in hand. Some noise on the radio, but that only came though from another room, another world even, the world where things were different. There was no-one else in his world, not at this moment, the room was empty but for him, reflecting too much, and holding a yellow piece of steel.

And he swung.

At the exact moment that the bar came down on the top of his theigh, he was able to let out properly a cry of how he felt. This was what released the emotion. This was how he could get rid of the pain and frustration of the day, the week, the year.

And again.

And again.


And when the tears were properly flowing, then, only then, was he able to stop. It was better than the old way. There were no scars. The bruises would heal, eventually but slowly, and that was what he needed.To see the effect, to bring emotion to the surface. He stood to get a drink, and the pain embraced his damaged legs.

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