The sandbag finally gave in.
Sweat beaded down his shoulder blades, down his eyebrows, hands, arms. Jim was rarely ever so angry that he'd want to take it out physically, but he seemed to be beyond pissed. Even the sclera of his eyes turned orangish-red, his pupils as tiny as ever, beady and hollow.
He panted heavily, watching the sand pour out of the punching bag, after practically punching a hole in it. His knuckles were sore, and when he glanced down, he saw the blood freshly covering the bandages he'd worn.
Sighing, he unwrapped the bandages, stretching and closing his fists as he examined them. He wasn't exactly strong on an ordinary day, but his rage was destructive. He took a water bottle on the bench and poured it over his knuckles, cleaning the blood off. He didn't even seem fazed by the stinging feeling.
When he saw your muse behind him, he rolled his eyes, looking obviously annoyed. Not that he hated your muse, he was just very angry. Even his thoughts were clouded, with bloodlust – the need to shatter something. And their presence was only irritating.
"Piss off," he said shortly, turning away from them. He was not in the mood to talk, or even bear their presence. His tone and body language screamed at them to not bother him now.
YOU ARE READING
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Random|| A C T O R || I T || S T O R Y T E L L E R || C R I M I N A L || G E N I U S || P S Y C H O P A T H || Come and play, darling. "All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players;" ~William Shakespeare. (Roleplay book)
