He was the smell of gasoline and the taste of used matches where the ember still glows beneath the char.
He carried the static of a million different colors in his eyes, all completely and intentionally chaotic. He was the insatiable craving of a black hole that revels in its inability to be filled.
His hands would ache in the winter when he let the wind slice his skin. He’d had them pierce his wrists so he could shove railroad spikes through the holes and say he’d been crucified and laugh. They’d warned him and told him he’d regret it but he didn’t plan to live long enough to regret anything so it was fine by him. When his hands ached, he savored the pain saying life had been cruel enough already so thick skin was worth it. He’d laugh again, earbuds blasting Rage Against the Machine - volume higher than he was himself.
Pacing. Unsteady. Changing like the direction of a flame. Complete confident uncertainty.
Shifting.
Addicted to the frenetic urge to destroy something - anything - and know that no amount of destruction will sate this inexplicable impulse.
He couldn’t tell, himself, what his intentions were or how far he’d go so he’d decided a long time ago to simply let it play out and see which way he ended up dead.