100 Words: Flinch

“End it already!” Redrimmed eyes glared.

“Right.” He was terse, so full of snark, it stung. “Cos that’s what I do, innit? End things? Weapons like you?”

“Fuck you,” she hissed. “You know why you have to. You know what I’ll do to you. To everyone.”

“We’ll sort it,” he said. “Now eat. Y’not thinking straight because y’aven’t in three bloody days.”

With a wordless cry, she slammed her hand on the table in frustration.

He didn’t flinch, even as one of the glasses shattered, and a shard flicked past his cheek, drawing a line of blood over his skin.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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