As I get closer I also get tenser.


    Checking one last time that I had prepared...


    I quietly and slowly walk up to him, holding up a sharpened rock that was going to smash his head.


    I smash his head with the rock, he screams, I kick his balls and cause him to cover his groin.


    I smash his head over and over, he pushes me back. I stumble and then kick his head.


    He seems to be panicked and bleeding. I attempt to hit his head again but he kicks his feet at me while still on the ground.


    I throw my rock and other various rocks I had prepared beforehand; I like to be prepared.


    After throwing said rocks I try to stomp on his head, he grabs my leg and tugs it.


    I position myself to fall on him with my rock aimed to strike his head while guarding my groin.


    We get into a scramble and he grabs my rock.


    I aim for his balls and his eyes, trying to back away.


    I miss, but I successfully get away.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    I grab more rocks and throw them.


    He gets up and I try to punch his balls, he covers his hands on his balls, but I continue, hitting both his hand and maybe his balls.


    I run.


    After running away, I check my hands and body, my hands were sore, even though I had covered my hands with a section of my clothes. A few glancing blows had hit me, but other than that I was fine apart from bruises on my back.


    I yell and scream, acting crazy and trying to scare the person.


    He runs, but seems to have a concussion or something; I run at him and try to cut him instead of smacking him. I fail, only scraping his clothes.


    I back up again, nervous and afraid, adrenaline still pumping.


    I begin to find more rocks and throw them. Over and over.


    And over.


    And over.


    And over.


    After an hour of throwing my hardest, I was tired and could''ve expected a major pain in my arms in the morning.


    He seemed to still breathe, so I decided to cut his throat, blood rushes out. I see the previous wounds scabbing and I find many bruises visible, his body was covered in red spots, in dirt, in gravel, and rocks surrounding him from the ones I thrown.


    He groans and I repeat.


    I break down and cry. Not because of sadness, but because of regret and anger. Regret at my actions and anger towards everything.


    I sleep.