Blake didn't know how she looked at that moment, and she didn't care. No one was around to see her; no one was around to care, and the only person who was supposed to was leaving… With somebody else. Her hand clenched around her drink, shattering the glass bottle in her hands as the red liquid ran down her arm. She was drinking vodka, of course, clear as air but easily dilated with something more viscous than it, such as blood. When she had imagined this in her head (and oh had she imagined, of course she did) she was always angry, she was always mad. But if anything, that only showed how little she knew herself. She didn't feel anything, at first. Not until she made her way back home.
Nothing in it was safe. Her fists, her claws, every part of her lashed out and destroyed. Vases, glasses, windows, furniture, books, anything not made out of stone. She vaguely remembered ripping the microwave out of the wall and using it to smash her toilet into shards, the mirror and tub soon sharing the same fate. She didn't care. She didn't know how to care. She couldn't even understand why she was angry, just tore her house apart as hot tears ran down her face. Hot tears that lasted even until there was nothing to break, until she fell to her knees on the remainders of her life, until her claws dug into her skin deep enough to scrape bone. And even as she lost consciousness, she couldn't feel anything.