National
Seven Thousand Club
Back inside the hotel room, the entire place was much gloomier. The fridge was wide open, the bright light of the fridge illuminating the kitchen. The bed was untouched, other then where Fortune slept. The entire place was dark, other than the kitchen, every hallway depressed and sad. And inside the final room, farthest away from the door, was Desimus, sitting in a bed, his bare chest and back revealing his tattoos. They were all beautifully well made, but the canvas they were painted on was pale from sadness and grief. His fingers dug into his skull, his nails cutting through his scalp, causing him to bleed. But the physical pain wasn't even felt. Desimus' head was filled with mixed emotions, a melting pot full of negativity and pain. He didn't understand why this hurt so much. She said no, and that was final. So why couldn't he just continue on? He couldn't, the feeling in his chest wouldn't allow him. It only grew, more and more, like a festering wound that wouldn't heal, but only grow. He was getting angry, feeling weak for not being able to withstand this emotional pain. He snarls in rage as he slams his fist into the wall, easily destroying the drywall and wood behind it. He couldn't stop himself, he couldn't stop from destroying everything. He was hoping this would make him feel better. However, his anger just grew. It wouldn't leave him alone, and it only got worse and worse. Finally, his rage took him to his bathroom, and he looks down at his hands, his pale and angry skin coating his powerful hands. But they didn't help him through this battle. They were useless. Desimus felt useless. He looks up, only to be greeted by the person he despised the most right now. He stares at himself, and he shouts in rage, slamming his fist into the mirror, the well crafted glass shattering into several tiny pieces. He couldn't end this pain, and it was getting worse. He only stands there, letting the pain fester, letting himself get hurt. What else could he do?