So I picked something to describe, to illustrate verbally--which was:
"Throwing a glass at a wall."
Here's the result.
Scene: Throwing a glass at a wall
I
was so angry at what he’d said that the glass in my grip started to feel more
like a grenade. Might as well be, I
thought. This shithole could use a
gutting. I clenched the clear $5.00 dinner-set piece in my hands so hard
and mightily that I imagined my flesh fusing to the surface. He was laughing
with the bartender. What did he just say?
I thought. I couldn’t even hear anymore. His laughter, the smile—how could he
fool all these people? I sat in my stool, running my left index finger around
the top of my pint glass, right hand firmly groping the base. My head hung low,
feet resting on the stool rungs with my toes pointed outward. My knees sat
farther apart than the last two people on a New York subway.
The
words being spoken at me—[are you sure he
was talking about you?] were like insects hurdling toward a car on the
freeway—some of them flew right over my head, some of them splattered and exploded
on my face, and others were lucky they never reached my ears. Thick glass
within my grip caved under the intense pressure; [don’t lose it in here—just hold it together] I could feel the hair-thin cracks spread out away from my right middle
finger’s grasp. Anger [that motherfucker]
can adopt a body of its own [will stop
TODAY]
SMASH!
Tiny
chards of sharp, transparent confetti went flying in the air, defacing the mirrored
wall behind the booze. Bottles of
Grey Goose and Tanqueray and Jameson knocked together and fell to the ground,
shattering on impact. One by one, more bottles followed, desperate to get away
from the crime scene they’d just witnessed. Cracked and distorted, the cheap
mirror hadn’t shattered; rather, I watched a bent image of my own face staring
back to me, red and raw with abhorrence. [This
isn’t anger. This is a revolution.] I stood, animalistic, in the foggy
yellowlight so common in dive bars. I breathed deeply, quickly, and heavily. My
right hand, bloody and cut, matched my left hand in clenching themselves into
tight balls of fists. Insane would be a kind word used to describe this moment
of me.
All
around me was a war scene. I just threw a beer glass into an entire stash of
glassware at full force, I reacted like a rabid animal ready to attack, and my
captor sat still. Unbothered.
His
eyes stayed low and dark, reading deeply into his whiskey straight. Bartender was
still shocked at my outburst. He couldn’t wait to run away from it, but he was
afraid I’d pull a gun, so he started cleaning up the broken bottles instead. I watched
for a second, feeling sorry about the mess and then [I’m not safe yet] I jerked my gaze back to Ser.
I could see almost-unintelligible specks
of blood gracing his once-statuesque
forehead like a dainty mist; microscopic shards of glass easily embedded themselves in his bald head, undetected except for the blood. The back right side of Ser’s jaw, of an
enviable quality that once projected manliness [where’d his beard go?], now dripped with deep, red warmth. When his
forehead beaded up with blood, the drops were whisked away promptly with the
back of his right thumb. On the inside of his index finger and part of his hand
was the blood he wiped from his jaw. He cocked his head to one side, winced,
and slowly set an inch-wide piece of glass on the bartop in front of me. He
raised his eyes to meet mine [such evil] and
tipped his hat. He stood up from his spot, adjusted his collar, gave Bartender
a generous tip and walked out.
I
got what I wanted. His vile words were no longer smacking me around, his
pitiful presence was probably miles away by now. There have been times when
I’ve felt ashamed of such explosive moments, but nothing will be a reward as
much as my freedom. [I’ve won. I’m safe.]
I
gathered my things, albeit slightly shaken and coming down off the adrenaline
high. I helped Bartender clean, and I gave him my word that I would repay the
liquor. I probably won’t though.
He
gave me a cigarette and I walked outside, shuffling my boots while awkwardly
searching my pockets for the lighter.
*Flickflick—spark—inhale*
Ah,
nicotine. So calm.
Two
guys just walked by. They were laughing.
[What did he just say?]
