Matthew snarled as he tore into the air guitar. As Tino's old Shaman CD roared in the background, Matt knocked over the Charleston and Lay-Z-Boy. His booted foot stomped its way through the glass top of the coffee table. Glass and wooden splinters littered the floor, but Matt kept his eyes closed. He had flung his glasses off a long while ago-since then, he had probably stepped on them-in favor of freely throwing his head in circles, streamers of blond trailing the movements. His neck would kill him eventually, if he didn't slam himself into the wall hard enough to do brain damage.
The high was incredible, and Matt didn't want to let go of his pain-induced euphoria. He held his breath in long intervals, lungs on fire and screaming, up until his body shuddered and he took a deep inhale of ice-cold, quenching Canadian air. Each time he flung his head, he could feel the mass between his ears bouncing off the inner surfaces of his skull. The vertigo stole his balance, the violent movement making the whole room lurch and spin. His eyes felt about to explode behind their lids, his heart about to do the same in his chest.
But it was not enough.
It was not the adrenaline rush of taking that beloved Louisville Slugger of his brother's and shoving the handle into each eye socket.
It was not the pleasure of taking the brightest of Father's silver-plaited needles and sewing his mouth shut.
It was not the ecstasy of tearing out Papa's throat while he climaxed under him.
It was not the joy of impaling the knight with his own Iron Cross.
It was not the hit of tearing out his Komrade's heart.
Nothing civil came close to those highs.
Matthew opened his eyes and panted. He glared at the stereo in the entertainment center, cursing at it as the rest of the room went quiet.
Tino would be next: his metal was not fast, nor long enough, to keep up with Matthew's needs.