A SLICE OF A ROOM
He slapped his face and the window opened. It felt good, but the breeze was strong. He sighed like you would if you lost a life. Red welts appeared quickly on his cheek. Four? Where was his thumb? He smirked. Can't even get that right.
He looked down at his hand, it slowly formed a fist. No - too early. It can wait.
The window stayed open, the breeze stayed strong and cool - but he could hear voices - from inside and outside the room. There were chants, hums, songs, and groans. The dead stood all around - favouring the breeze, or favouring the darkening red welts on his cheek - he couldn't tell, it didn't really matter.
The room filled with bands of the dead - but the room remained empty.
There is favour in pain he mused as he punched himself repeatedly in the face. The dead extended their tongues, ready to lick up the morsels of exquisite savour, so he smiled and punched himself again.
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