Craters a wall

The frothing sea boiled over. Three months of controlling my temper evaporated like so much steam, and as a wordless scream of fury and frustration found its way past my lips, I wound up and slammed my fist as hard as I could into the mirror.

It exploded.

Okay, maybe that’s a little dramatic. The mirror cratered around my fist, shattering and fracturing until a spiderweb of cracks stretched all the way to the top, and even though I knew I shouldn’t have, the tension inside of me that unwound then and there just felt so good that I couldn’t bring myself to care. Maybe it wasn’t the healthiest way of blowing off some of the stress that was my daily life, but damn if it didn’t feel satisfying in the moment.

When I pulled my fist back, unbloodied and unscratched, bits and pieces of the mirror came down, too, falling into the sink bowl and clattering as they broke into tinier shards. In the mirror itself, there was an indent the size of my fist about two inches deep, cutting into the wall behind it, and radiating outwards from it was a starburst of missing glass.

I looked down at my arm and my unscathed hand, which had already started to transform into my base Breaker state. The thin layer of golden energy that wrapped around it like the personal shields on the power armor from one of those video games was invisible but for the barely there shimmer as light refracted through it.

For a moment, I considered changing my arm back and just leaving things the way they were, letting the trio stew as they discovered it and realized exactly how badly I could have hurt them without my self-control, but I knew that was too dangerous. Breaking a mirror wasn’t that extraordinary a thing, but leaving craters in walls required arm strength that a normal teenage girl, especially one as scrawny as I was, simply didn’t have.