The Writer's Journal

He couldn't get into the chest, and he needed to. He needed what was inside. It had been so long that he had forgotten what it looked like.

He tried to open it, but the wooden and box like shell was impenetrable. There was no key and no indication that it was meant to be opened. As he felt more and more isolated from its contents, he felt more and more alone.

A flame light inside of him.

Wrapped in self loathing anger, he began to tap the chest with his fist. He tapped a little harder each time. He was connecting his anger to the chest.

His anger grew until it became him. It developed behind his rib cage, manifesting itself in a fiery energy that quickly circulated throughout his body. It invigorated every cell giving him a great sense of power and urgency. It would scorch his insides, looking to break through his outer shell.

"I will not be denied." he said assertively. His fists pulsating with heat and anguish.
He smashed his fist into the chest in front of him. His hand stayed in the wooden structure for a moment.

He began smashing it with his bare hands. He was steady, punching through, withdrawing the fist, then punching through with the other. This destruction was his creation. He pushed through the integrity of the structure over and over again. It was his chest he was destroying. Soon the sides had little to hold up. This made him angrier. He hit it harder, speeding up, losing his form. He screamed, heating up the room, as he smashed the structure to pieces too tiny for the force of his fists to make an impact on.

There it lay in shambles. He exhaled a thick black smoke. his chest was destroyed. The fire had burned itself out.

and then it was just him in an otherwise empty room. His chest was in shambles. there laid his still beating heart, quivering, having not seen or felt anything for so long.