For The Record

For the record, breaking someone's nose doesn't sound anything like it does in movies. It sounds sick, and perverse, and strangely intimate, like snapping the cartilage in a dude's face somehow makes you know him better than anyone else. The blood is brighter than you'd expect, crimson and vibrant, and the second you tear that cartilage in half, it springs like a leak, red running everywhere, staining everything, and after a while, there's so much it turns black. Like the body can't keep up with it all and just gives up trying to produce something that makes sense.

And for the record, it's an incredibly satisfying feeling when they fall to the ground. When their knees get marked up by the pebbles, and their breathing is labored by the blood. When they finally fall on their side, like some stupid slow motion movie where everything slows down when you land the final blow. The puddle of blood that forms around their head is almost like a halo, and when the person you're beating to shit is an angel, the satisfaction is doubled.

For the record, when they look up at you with those blue eyes that caused more pain than they're worth, it sends a jolt right to your gut, one that's not easy to forget. It sends electricity ripping through your body, and for a moment, you're afraid, because he is… was your friend. He was your everything. But he's not anymore, he can't be, and you lose yourself in those eyes until you remember what he is to you now.

For the record, turning away is the best decision you ever made.

For the record, walking back to the Impala, back to your brother, and back to the life you had before, is the greatest achievement of your life.

But for the record, as you drive away, your thoughts are still on the angel you left broken on the pavement. And for the record, that's not going to leave you anytime soon.