Broken

The deja vu subsided and the pencil lay snapped in half. Its sound still ricocheted in the halls, a portent. There it was on the desk with a broken spine. The tan flesh coated its black marrow, and the graphite wept in derision. The jagged edges of detachment carried in them the premonition of violence. It loomed, gracefully vengeful, like velvet. The antagonist loafed, comfortably unaware. The event made me wish that the inanimate could rise up and punish their smug oppressors.