He stared at his reflection in the mirror and stared at the person looking back at him. This wasn't him. He had changed, and not for the better. He didn't understand where all the anger came from. One minute he was content, the next so full of rage that he couldn't even see a foot in front of him with his red-tinted vision. That's why he stormed out the way he did. He couldn't take it. He couldn't pretend anymore, pretend he was still normal. He wasn't. He knew that, and deep down he knew they knew that too. He should never have joined that club. From the moment he walked in the door he felt a part of him awaken, ignite, burn inside him. It was still burning now: a pain that grew more concentrated with every dark thought that entered his mind, a pain that he had tried so hard to fight. Well he had had enough. This was it. This was his life now. There was no going back.
He shut his eyes tightly and ground his teeth, coming to terms with the realisation. He couldn't tell them. Not yet. But this was a good thing. His ticket out of hell. A way to forget his past and present and put all his energy into focusing on his future. He needed this. They needed this. And he would do it.
He ran the tap and sprayed his face with cold water. He needed the swelling to go down before he went home. He knew this was a lost cause. He could go to the bar. Talk to the other guys. They would know what to do. They could help him.
He lifted his t-shirt over his head and skimmed his sides with his hands. The bruises would fade, unlike the memories permanently imprinted in his brain. The images that, whenever he closed his eyes burned the inside of his eyelids. The images that kept him awake at night. He had had two good things in his life. One was gone and the other was slowly slipping out of his grip. A wave of jealousy ripped through him when he thought about it.
He pushed the image to the back of his brain and walked over to the small fridge. He looked inside at the black sports bottles neatly aligned. He grabbed the one nearest to him and forced the cap up. He took two heavy gulps and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He sat on the small cot, too small for any of the men here. He finished his sports bottle before putting his head in his hands. The anger inside of him was so great and he couldn't fight it. He clenched the bottle still in his hand until he heard a crack. He looked up from the ground and at his hands. Did he just do that? He threw the bottle to the corner of the room. He was dangerous, too dangerous to be around them. He could snap at any moment. He couldn't go home. He would stay here. He doubted they would even notice he was gone.
He picked up his shirt and pulled it back over his head, ignoring the pain he felt when he stretched. He walked back over to the mirror, ran the tap and splashed his face with water again. He shook his hands dry, walked to the door and left. But not without slamming it first.