You scream once more, the raw, guttural sound echoing mercilessly off the walls that surround you. Your fist collides with the wall that is to your right, once, twice, three times. You breathe deeply, trying to steady the sizzling rage coursing through your veins. Alas, it doesn't work, and you find yourself on the verge of smashing everything in your path, your knuckles now cracked and red, blood pounding in your ears. You turn to the blonde girl cowering on the floor in front of you, a swirl of conflicting emotions writhing within your body.
You weren't always this angry. There was time, many years ago, when you remember being carefree. Happy. But this memory has now diminished, leaving you with nothing but a faded image of what used to be. Now, you are simply filled with rage, a deep fire constantly burning within you.
You blame Brittany for all of this. You blame her for your anger, for your inner turmoil and pain. And while you still love her, you hate her for making you feel so weak, so powerless. You hate her for what she's done to you. She's made you question everything about yourself, made you despise who you are, what you are. All because you fell in love with her. And you can't stand it.
You take a few steps forward, closing the gap between you both. She looks up at you sorrowfully, meeting your eyes and whimpering pitifully. But there is also resignation in her eyes, a sense of normality even. For this, the violence, the anger - it isn't a new occurrence. It's been happening for a while now, hidden from everyone you know, your dirty little secret. For months, this vicious cycle has run its course; it always begins with your own feelings of self-hatred, which blossom into hard, emotionless anger that you then take out on Brittany. You're always sorry afterwards. But never sorry enough to stop.
You tower over her in this moment, watching as she reaches out and grabs onto your leg, trying to steady herself as she sits up on her knees shakily. She's retching, trying to hold back the bile you know is clawing its way up her throat after you delivered a hard kick to her stomach a few moments ago. You smile slightly, and she looks up and smiles back, despite being hunched over in pain.
You crouch down, placing your hand on her cheek, where already a hand-shaped mark is blossoming, tinged red from the countless slaps she's received from you tonight. She leans into your touch, nuzzling her face into your palm.
"Why do you make me do these things, Britt? Why do you make me so mad?" You mumble, almost to yourself.
She shakes her head, as if to indicate that she doesn't know the answer to your question. This ignites a new, ever-blazing fire within you; you want answers, answers for why you feel this way, and you're furious that you can't seem to get them from anyone, not even Brittany.
You stand up swiftly, grabbing her roughly by the neck and pulling her to her feet, shoving her up against the wall. She cries out, her desperate whines quickly turning into gasps of pain as your fingers tighten around her pale throat.
"I wish you didn't make me so mad, baby." You murmur softly, using your other hand to stroke her hair, watching her eyes shut instinctively as she begins to cry softly.
"Shh, it's okay. Don't cry." You whisper, releasing your hold on her throat to cup her face in your hands.
She's trembling beneath your touch, yet still her hands come up to cover yours, as she gives you a tiny smile through her tears.
"Britt, you know I love you, right?" You say quietly, lightly tracing her swollen, bruised bottom lip with your thumb.
She nods quickly, whispering, "I love you too."
"And you know why I do this?" You ask, lifting her top slightly and gesturing to the violent bruises beginning to bloom on her stomach, deep purple blemishes spattering smooth porcelain skin, like rebellious ink blots sitting upon a piece of untainted parchment.
"Because I make you angry, and make you feel things you don't want to feel, even though I don't mean to."
You nod, satisfied with Brittany's words.
"Yes. You make me... you make me feel. And... I can't stand it. I can't."
"But San, maybe if you just try-"
"No!"
You lash out, striking her cheek with the back of your hand. She gasps, her hand flying to cradle her jaw as she gazes at you, her eyes pleading for you to stop. But you can't. You're just so full of hate these days, so full of venom, and you know that if you don't take it out on someone, alleviate some of that acidic, toxic anger that immerses you so uncontrollably every day, then you'll explode.
And so, you use her. Brittany. Sweet, innocent, compassionate Brittany.
Of course, when you first became friends with the bubbly blonde, you never dreamed of anything like this happening. But then again, you also never dreamed that you'd fall in love with your best friend, and that your feelings for her would drown you mercilessly like an endless wave, until you felt like you had no way out.
That is, until the day you lashed out at Brittany for the first time. You were arguing about something; you recall Brittany trying to convince you to talk to someone about how you were feeling. She suggested talking to your school's guidance counsellor, and the suggestion simply made your blood boil.
You remember turning on her, demanding to know why this was anybody else's business but your own. And then, when she tried to argue back, you hit her. It was only a light slap, but the rush you felt was incomparable to anything else you had previously experienced.
And now, you use violence as a way to control your anger, to have somebody to blame for this besides yourself. And Brittany doesn't even fight back. She just takes it, knowing that under all of the beatings, under the malicious taunts and the threats, you still love her.
You are pulled from your thoughts by a small whimper, and you look up to find Brittany peering at you, a thin trail of blood trickling from her lip.
You reach out, watching her flinch a little, yet you continue until your hand is cupping her chin, wiping away the blood with a sad smile.
And then, you turn and walk away, listening to Brittany sniffle quietly as she sinks to the floor, bringing her knees up to her chest and burying her face on her hands as she sobs, as is customary whenever your days together come to such a poignant, destructive end.