crow

He’d made it through everything just to be noosed and left out in the rain like a stray dog, no doubt this was all a ploy to make him nervous for the last series of games his abuser wanted to play.

The last game he’d ever play.

The rope was a little too tight around his neck; a little too tight around his wrists. A little too much of a reminder that he’d gambled everything and lost it all. This never would’ve happened if he’d stuck to what he knew.

If he’d chosen to follow his grand plan instead of bending over backwards for the one person to have shown him kindness since his rise to power.

Oh how the mighty had fallen. 

It wasn’t in him to cry. He hadn’t cried since he’d realized that nobody would chose him first- that the only person who could keep him safe was himself. And he’d failed at that. Even he’d failed at keeping himself from harm. 

Infection was setting in. The cuts and bruises on his back and feet were growing hot with each passing second. His skin threatened to rot away from his unwashed and unloved body. 

He wouldn’t go quietly. When they came for him to drag out information, he’d keep his lips shut until the noose tightened and his feet no longer touched the ground. 

Death used to not scare him, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous for what would come next. 

Something cool settled just below his ribs. Ten fingers. Two hands. He couldn’t see. Couldn’t figure out what was real and what was not. 

But he didn’t mind the way those hands eased the heat festering in his torso. They reminded him of somebody he’d thought he could call a friend.