I blast open the door to the place I was staying in before. In a huff and a hurry, I grab the vase and slam the bathroom door behind me. I need to keep this feeling. the vase flies from my hand across the room into the wall shattering and falling to the floor. I push the drooping flower away as I search through the vase's shard looking for a suitable tool. My eyes reach a long and thick remnant of the gift.
The water runs down the pipes as I remove my white shirt. The image runs and dances through my mind. My breathing gets more agitated as the clay presses to my skin. A ripping uneven but sharp pain sings throughout my chest.
Why is my blood red?
The question gets lost between the tearing and the peeling.
ARGHHHHH
The attempts to stay true to the design are futile as the constant curvature dulls my sense of what's left. The jagged ripping is all I can think of. Sawing through my own flesh. Cut, cut, cut. A slice and then another slice. It doesn't stop with my chest. Red blood flows from my fingers too.
My hand pulls itself away not bearing to be a part of the torture anymore. The make-shift knife clinks as it hits the floor in defeat, my arm following. I can barely see what's in front of me. The pain in my chest suddenly doesn't seem to hurt so much. I doubt its healed.
I take one last look at my work of art before collapsing.
"That… isn't. my moon."