HOW RECURSIVE.future
thump thump thump, whatâs that sound--â
He muttered the same phrase over and over, his tongue painted with Pidgin, pacing the room, âWhat would father think, what would father say...â Though his gait was uneven, Ryder could never tear his eyes from the red burning before him. The blood-stained carpet; the low, blunt strike to the head; how the victimâs body was just dizzy with energy, fear swimming in their eyes and now⌠cold.
Ryder could feel the tension rising in the room - the rising arguments, the screaming - but he couldnât hear nothing but white noise and fuzz in his mind. His thoughts were defeaning, Look at what youâve become.
There came an urge to just be destructive. Break Sterlingâs ribcage, right then and there. Punch the wall, leave a crack. Fuck, heâd settled for exhausting his lungs, grabbing the impaled object - strike himself, limp and cold.
Was Ryder not the person he thought he was - never wanting to return to this⌠How had he fallen into pattern once again; how had he even convinced himself that he could move onâŚ
His pants buzzed; his phone screen blaring against his face. Marissa. Fuck this.
The next second, his phone was shattered against the floor.
He could only stare at the body.















