The instant I found it, I knew. I could tell exactly what it was, why it was there waiting to be discovered by me half-buried in the dirt underneath a park bench.
It was a terribly angry blood-red, and it was pulsing. It was misshapen, and full of hairline cracks. I knew that if I split it open, it would release the pain that was in store for me for the rest of my life, all at once. But then—then it would all be over with, and I could be safe. That was what I hoped, anyway.
I just held it in my trembling hands for a few minutes, feeling it throb, staring at it, wondering if I were brave enough to do it.
Then, without giving myself another moment to think about it, I suddenly swung my hand back and slammed it down against the weathered wood of the bench.
Scalding black liquid gushed out, covering my hand. My head spun and I could no longer see clearly. I felt as if the world had suddenly transformed into a vise, crushing me. I felt my mouth opening to form a scream, but I could not hear it. I collapsed into the dirt, shaking and sobbing, the black ooze pooling around my body.