Exit Music...
He was armed.
This would be a concern to anyone. An axe... in the hands of an emotionally crushed 20 something. His breaths were ragged; his eyes stained with tears. He couldn't understand why she had left him. He'd been nothing but a gentleman to her; always took her opinions on board; always stopped when she said no... but all that left him in the end was a broken heart; crippling emotional instability; an empty bank account and broken dreams.
All around him in the now desolate room; were all the reminders of his time with her. A stuffed toy he'd won at the fair for her... A bed that reeked of sex... and more regret... The mirror where she'd preened herself... or rather; had made herself just barely passable for all the high-price places he'd taken her... The empty room still echoed with her venomous words... but soon; it'd all become splinters... and dust... and soon to be drowned in petrol and ablaze.
His heart was screaming; his mind had taken a back seat; his soul was rapidly turning into a blackened ball of misery, hate and cynicism. He was thin... Dangerously so... How he could actually hold the axe up would be a mystery to anyone who had seen him in the last few weeks... A month ago; people would have said he'd be able to chop wood fine... but now? This broken, starving; barely-functional male? Swinging an axe? They would have said it was impossible.
It began... The mirror smashed into a million pieces; shards flew through the air; slicing his skin and fur. The tortured scream that came from his voice was better described as a howl of pain and despair. Soon; the dresser full of her clothes was reduced to splinters; as was the bedside table; the wardrobe and every other wooden thing in the room. Plastics were smashed; glass was thrown; the axe was repeatedly swung into the bed; even though it did basically nothing.
Eventually; the thunk of the axe and the smashing of glass was replaced with the splashing of petrol; the sound of a song on the radio and the choked sobs of the heart-broken male. This was it... There was no going back... Even if he'd stopped now; the house was a write-off. With holes in the walls and glass in his flesh; he flopped onto the remains of the bed; the box on his chest; the tip on the striker pad... and the acrid smell of petrol burning his nostrils.
There he was... Holding a match... in a house that was ready to explode...
He flicked it.