BRICK WALLS | listen.
“Really, Gisborne? Is this the best you can do?”
Guy breathed heavily, his eyes squeezed shut so tight spots of color were all he could see. He pressed his face against the brick wall of his loft, now painted white, and took a deep breath before stepping back to punch the wall forcefully.
“Do it over - again. God, you really are useless.”
Three more punches. Tears stung his eyes as he threw a fourth. He lost count after that and eventually fell into a heap against the wall, sobbing.
“Any more of – whatever – this incompetence is and you’re out of here, Gisborne. And you know I mean it, too.”
Head pressed against the wall, now sitting, he shakily reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette and his Zippo. He lit up, hands shaking so hard it was difficult to light the cigarette for a moment. He inhaled deeply and shut his eyes, knuckles stinging.
“Useless,” Guy mumbled to himself. “Incompetent.” He opened his eyes and looked down at the bloody scratches on his knuckles, smoke filling the air.
“Useless,” he repeated, cigarette between his lips.