The Quality of Pain

I drove my fist into the brick wall. I couldn't even feel it. Not the throbbing of broken fingers, not the broken skin, not the broken heart, and not the sting of self-reproach. I turned and walked away. I could hear her calling me back, calling me first softly, then louder until I turned the corner of the road. It was all for the best. I looked down at my hand. Blood caressed my knuckles, licking the edge of my sleeve. I looked away. Nothing, it seemed, was going to hurt ever again.