Blood coursed in my veins like pulsing liquid acrimony, settling in the furious beating of my carotid. Down here in the lovely dark of the basement was the only place for me in this monstrous state, among the boxes of junk stacked around my beat-up car. One small corner had been reserved for exercise equipment and an old thrift store mini-fridge stocked with Monster and Jack Daniels.

I put on my boxing gloves and channeled my emotions into my fists, striking the punching bag so it thrashed in its chains, its bottom bashing against the cracked concrete wall. I noticed for the first time a picture of her still Scotch-taped to the wall. That scumbag, that cancer of the human race, that swine! My rage seemed to explode into a thick, suffocating miasma all around me, drowning me in its seductive idiocy.

I thrust forward and punched the wall, not even noticing the pain until my blind fury faded. I removed the boxing glove. My knuckles were mangled, bruised blue-black and seeping viscous scarlet liquid. I tore down the picture and shredded it, my blood spattering the walls and my black sports bra as my hands thrashed desperately. Suddenly falling to my knees, I cupped my face in my hands ashamedly, disgusted at what I had become. Or was it what she had made me?