The Art of Making Fists with Hands

He keeps his fingernails long, to feel the way they bite into his palms. Eight crescent-shaped scars are there. Each knuckle cracks audibly against the squeezed pressure. The world condenses into seven unpunished faces. All too bold, cocky. The rest of their bodies fall into a category of secondary interest, but there they are. Targets, each and every last shred of them.

Methodically, they approach, taking turns. His right hand crushes collar bone. Left hand obliterates the nose. Blood meets foreign skin and stays there, red and already drying, a bright warning to those who stand by watching. They pay no respect to their fallen. Anger boils their own blood. They don’t expect to see it where it doesn’t belong.

Violence smears the floor. Physics has fun painting some of the walls, spattering red on porous concrete blocks with permanent stain. Certain pipes and swinging lamps earn minute badges of crimson. Bodies lie pulped upon the ground, no longer targets.

It’s the only way he can impact the world.

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