Feelings of pain twisted together, forming a mesh of unwillingness, darkness, and suffocation. They grew more violent, pressing into his mind and forcing him to recall memories he had long wanted to forget.
Streams of blackness grew into plumes of smoke emitting from the corners of his eyes, his veins coloring into the same shade of darkness.
Every time he swung his machete, he seemed to sink into that feeling further—and then he sat in it, stewing in it. The concentration of negativity grew and continued to do so.
And yet, Zarek never seemed to step beyond that barrier. He was too used to these feelings.
Three lives of hardship, of pain, of disappointment and hurt. His heart had long been beaten and broken in so many ways that there was nothing left to chip at.
