The mug shattered against sterile tile. His breath came in harsh shallow breaths and Esti forced himself to take a slow but shaky breath, breathing deep.
The frigid air did little to cool his flaring temper nor the persisting headache.
He stared through hooded eyes at his reflection. The stark white of the room and her own vivid maroon hair.
With another anguished cry he took a savage swipe at the soap dish and sent that flying into wall with a sharp clang. It clattered to the ground some feet away.
Sometimes, the memories came back. The smell of rain, the cold wet ground, the searing pain--
Esti shook his head, desperate to free himself of the shackles that bound him so, even as tears trailed burning paths down his pallid face.
He felt nauseous.
Another look in the mirror and the next thing he knew he was staring at not one, but several reflections, a small red sticky trickle making its way down his clenched fist, now embedded with glass.
"Bloody hell." He muttered under his breath. Now he'd done it.
The pain didn't bother him. Compared to the burden of past happenings, he felt little and less of it, plucking out the small shards and wrapping the lacerations with care.
The ceramic still lay shattered in the corner as was the overturned soap tray.
Esti didn't bother picking them up.
