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There was a little, murky puddle on the floor. It was warm, muddy water, and in any other situation would've been something to avoid. But, he was splashing the water on his face. He'd washed off the blood, changed clothes, but he still felt... Icky.

He was right at the point where the weird hyperactivity that sleep deprivation grants, that shifty, nervous energy, fading. It was being replaced by... Emptiness.

Everything good left him. Left nothing.

The lack of energy in his now lax body made him feel each of the pains, bruises, cuts that had once seemed so small were now in focus, magnified hundereds of times. Made him feel shitty, made him feel angry. Why hadnt April, or Jeanette, his so called friends done anything? They couldve atleast acknowledged something, but no.

Everyone left him.

He leant back and pulled the little bottle out his bag, the only one with a label on it.

He placed it by the side of him.

Noises. Footsteps, behind him.

He turned round sluggishly, raising his hand in greeting.

"H-" He swallowed, pausing slightly. His throat was raw, dry. He started again. "Hello?" He said, sounding very nervous, scared.
The Resident Conspiracy Theorist *twitch*


Zachariah Johnston - Awkward Genius, Love Martyr - Team 13

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Armed With: Monkey Wrench [Kills=1] and a Corded Circular Saw [Kills=0]

Blog Prizes: The Rosaline Award for Most Forgotten Love Interest

Constructive Critism is always welcome!

Hey, check out my blog; Unicode Prose - You know you want to! It covers computing and poetry.
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Movement · The Open Plains
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