“It’s time,” she said and in we stumbled like lambs bleating in the slaughtered air. Any lingering hopes that he would be granted some final serenity or peace dashed in a maelstrom of tortured angles and the sweat-soaked rictus of a face that has been long lost to madness.
“No. Not blood. Not exactly.”
As he lay there, we sat and watched as ink-black beads rose on his skin, formed letters and soaked into the sheets.
When the merciful last breath came his final words lay bare across his ragged chest.
Oh dear God, what haven’t I done?