He thrust his fist deeper into the couch cushion.
He was angry, in fact furious.
He'd just lost his place in line.
He'd just missed being promoted by one sick day.
He felt so very sick.
He walked over to the table.
He picked up the plate.
He was angry, sad, furious.
He threw the plate with force.
He hit the couch with the plate.
Food scattered everywhere.
Gravy dripped....ran into cracks on the wall.
He couldn't control his rage.
He jumped on top of the couch.
He punched and kicked the cushions until he was exhausted.
He sat down on the battered couch.
He had a bad day.
He slept draped across the battered couch.
He woke up the next day....
He fell to his knees horrified by the sight of scattered food, broken plate.
She's lying there on that battered couch, eyes wide....blank.
He froze.
He noticed the gravy....it was crimson and way too much for one meal.
He smelled the rotting air around him.
He felt the room closing in.
He remembers being upset.
She didn't make the gravy.
He wanted gravy.
He grew angry and took it out on the couch.
SO MUCH BLOOD!
He was never beating the couch.
