Category : Books-Fiction

Sub Category : Thriller

It's been a while since I wrote anything on here and I recently got an idea so I figured why not, ya know? Obviously the title is only temporary - unless I truly think it works.  Happy reading!
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     The ceiling cries red. It flows from the cracks and falls to the ground in a wet pile just lighter than the surrounding shadows. The walls shred skin. Enough to cover theirs with yours, taking it from you without asking. The floor stained with colors of unknown origin. Scarring the brains of anyone near. Nothing more surrounds. The noises silenced. The smells all but fled. The darkness bright and blinding.
     The human body limp and weak, yet somehow still living. The human mind left empty from the years of panic. The years of mental breakdown. The years of torment and torture. The years of nothing. And yet, it still thinks. It cannot speak that it knows of, the words all but forgotten. But it still puts the images together. Still tells itself a story even if it knows no words.
     And it doesn't care anymore. It doesn't want life. It doesn't want death. It cares not for peace or war. It cares not for justice or mercy. It just is. And it will always just be.
     The red falls upon it. Slides the slow path down it's head, face, and neck. Sliding down it's arm until finally falling from it's fingertips joining the others on the floor.

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