新太郎shintaro
It was to the teenagers chagrin as he lay dying on the the floor, the tiles cold against the skin of his back where his shirt rided up past his hip, gurgling on his own life sourse as he waited for death, or even unconsciousness to come, unable to scream any last desperate plea or whisper heroic last words. He layed on the kitchen floor, waiting as the girl whose heart he had broken several days before made a mad dash to the front door, escaping the house with a white picket fence - metaphorically speaking of course.
It was his demise and he couldn't help but feel vextation at the whole situation. It seemed he was his own nemesis in the long run and he couldn't help but feel a slight dab of amusement at the back of his pounding skull, it having smashed against the corner of the granite tabletop when it became too much of a chore to stand for another second as blood ran down pale skin and stained cloth. The clock above the couch in the next room over continued to tick as he lay dying, wondering absentmidly when his mother would find his limp body and what her reaction would be. He was almost sad that he wouldn't be able to gauge it.
The last thing he was able to process rationally, eyes long closed with no strengh to peel them open was the blood curdling scream of a middle aged woman and the warmth of a hand running through his dark, mussed hair and fingers brushing cheeks that lacked colour.
It was a feeling of drifting that engulfed the uncorrupted spirit as it floated, invisible to the naked eye of those from the near shore. It awaited judgement and acceptance, for the beckon of a god, not that it knew of this.
It knew of nothing but the faint inkling of waiting.
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