Every day is the same, just like the last. You try to block it out, but that threat still lingers like the Sword of Damacles hanging above your head by a heartstring. Your head remains on a swivel, lest you be caught unaware for even that split second that will give someone a chance to eliminate you. There ain't no rest for the wicked and uneasy is the head that wears the crown. There is only one problem. You gotta sleep sometime.
And as you wake up from that supposedly peaceful slumber to find that pool of warm liquid flowing around your neck, gasping for air as your throat struggles to operate like a cheap McDonald's straw that broke before that last drop of Orange Fruitopia hit your lips, like a last taste of life itself. Your eyes fade in and out, like a flickering TV channel in a dirtbox motel, as you look up at the face of the one who did this to you, smirking like the Cheshire Cat's demented cousin, glee practically oozing out of their eyes as fast as the blood leaves yours. You go to speak, but there are no words for this, so you just gurgle like a babbling brook threaded like a ribbon alongside a quaint little country house in Hell, and as the final precious ounces of your soul pour out onto the bedspread, there's only one thing that can really be said upon realizing that, like Chev Chelios, you have learned that this is the day that you die.....
You'll never get to see The Avengers now.
Damn it.
And as you wake up from that supposedly peaceful slumber to find that pool of warm liquid flowing around your neck, gasping for air as your throat struggles to operate like a cheap McDonald's straw that broke before that last drop of Orange Fruitopia hit your lips, like a last taste of life itself. Your eyes fade in and out, like a flickering TV channel in a dirtbox motel, as you look up at the face of the one who did this to you, smirking like the Cheshire Cat's demented cousin, glee practically oozing out of their eyes as fast as the blood leaves yours. You go to speak, but there are no words for this, so you just gurgle like a babbling brook threaded like a ribbon alongside a quaint little country house in Hell, and as the final precious ounces of your soul pour out onto the bedspread, there's only one thing that can really be said upon realizing that, like Chev Chelios, you have learned that this is the day that you die.....
You'll never get to see The Avengers now.
Damn it.