***i wrote this 50 days ago when I got mad at betty for taking my covers in the bed and got up and wrote angrily and I just now remembered it so here u go***
He was sitting on a stone hard chair with regret filling into his hollow bones. He ached of mistrust and angered words jumbled up into smaller messes and fragments of glued together string.
When /his/psychiatrist administered the doses he was quite clear to just give him enough, but the thought was never present in his mind what "just enough" was to the man in front of him.
Accusations burst from his head and withered like dying roses, popping into an empty sunset. He was angry. He was feral. His bones began to tremor and his body developed small earthquakes below his flesh. The sting of metal barely registered as it plunged all the way to the hilt in his shoulder bone.
He was screaming but his own ears couldn't hear him. His mouth moved but his eyes never saw his attacker flinch. Maybe he was just accustomed to the screams of the dying.
He teared his leg from its shallow binds an kicked for all he had left, for all he needed left. His attacker stumbled and he himself slammed to the ground. It was like slipping ever so slowly into the stagnant waters of a creek bed, letting the waters fill his perspires lungs with beauty and mist and dead flower petals.
He struggled to get to the other knife that had fallen near his chair, but escape plans don't always work out like they do in movies.
An angry Danish curse rose from the hollows of the others inner workings to escape fleetingly out his throat and mouth before he was hauled back upright and slapped. He would die. He was going to die.
"Will, you've tired. And now, I am going to eat your tired flesh. It serves you no more purpose, you understand?" He nodded and nodded and vigorously nodded until he was shaking with tears running down his face. He was dying. He was crying. He was dead.