Cracked Paint

Very brief fictional self-argument

I am terrified of everything peeling away at my fingertips like so much cracked paint. Each decision brings the inevitable end closer, and one more piece of my color flakes away into oblivion. I know that whatever I settle on, it'll be my world that pays for it.

Destruction is at my fingertips. I could grasp the surface of my world and tear it away if I wanted to, and I want to. I yearn for it. Lust sings in my blood, insatiable but for this one possibility. Only my terror halts my hand. What would happen if I peeled it? If everything flaked away into nothing....only a sketch would be left, of what was to be, and what was. What is. Me to my barest core.

I stare at my hands. Their edges are worn, their tips sharp and solid, but everything else is about to split. I want to tear it all up. (But I don't.) This is the same argument, and it is on a never ending loop.

"This will only hurt a little bit."

Mixed terror and lust flood me, and the decision is made by my body only. My mind still rails for and against it, on opposing sides always. The body is always more decisive.

My nails, my sharp, silver nails bite into the flesh below me and peel it away like so much cracked paint.

Reviews

[Rebecca Rogers]

I think this might be the first time I've reviewed something without finding fault. (Take it as a compliment because I review everything from grammar to punctuation to the story line.) Great job!