People keep calling me Dennis. It's my name, yet I hate it. I don't know what went through my folks' mind when they did that. I'm pretty sure the old man thought it would be a cool one. I'd like to punch him in the face. Shame he died some years ago.
...there. I punched this thing instead. My rendition is on the floor, sprawled about like a puzzle missing its heart. I don't think it had one in the first place.
Watching them watching myself feels like...it has to end.
As I travel my finger across the shards, I prickle it against a raised piece, smaller than a toenail.
My blood is coming out. Not enough to stain the clear glass, though. But I like the feel of it. The minuscule pain.
I wonder what it would be like to...