Grief

He pushed one finger down onto the pencil. The ridges of its octagonal shape dug into his skin. He pushed down harder, feeling the pressure until his finger turned white and the flesh inside fizzled and crackled. Slowly, he moved his finger forward. The next side of the pencil thudded down onto the table. A new ridge connected with his tissue, a new wave of pressure in his finger tip.

A hand appeared in front of his own. Manicured, but not painted. A solid signet ring weighed down the little finger. Soft lines were etched into the knuckles. The skin was smooth and fragrant with honey and lavender. And then on her thumbnail was a dot of dried blood, a spec on the landscape, but it consumed his eyes, growing larger and deeper in his mind, burning away all else until it was just him, and that blood.

The hand tapped against the table. 'Hannan,' a voice soothed.

He stretched out his hand, rolling the pencil to his palm, and pulled in tightly, gripping it in his fist.

'Hannan, if you-'

'I need to get back to work.'

He rose to his feet too fast. The dining chair fell back, clattering on the floor. He looked down at its fallen shape, flat on the floor with its legs up in the air, vulnerable, and still.

'Hannan, I do not think that is wise. You are not ready.'

He held the pencil like a knife, dragging his thumb down the length until his nail bent backwards. 'I'm going,' he muttered.