Point of No Return

The last time you had your fingers coiled around his throat, there was a frantic witness. Yours is righteous wrath, but you’ve always been a careful girl. Patience is your asset—your chemical reactions contain, you are nuclear. Your neurons fire fervid charges, you meticulously plan without splitting your personality into fragments. Years have created a cold buffer. You’ve played it out countless times, looking for cracks, holes, possible infractions. Your memory has become palatial. You are a predator. You lurk. You watch his faith fall like an angel that lost its wings mid-flight. His veins pulsate under your palm, his breath is choppy, he wants to beg. Your eyes bore into his. Your vision skips beyond the growing redness and tears. You’ve never seen life force up close. You’ve never held it in your hands. You’ve never watched it fight, drain, fight again. You pause. A philosophical and spiritual conundrum stands in your way. You cannot let him escape and tear through the fabric of your external reality. You split into halves.