Page 116 of Property of Necro
And now we gotta save him.
Again.
From himself.
And his past.
Chapter
Thirty-Three
Dippingmy fingers in the cold, wet paint, I smear crimson across the gray concrete walls, building layers of dimension. Red is my favorite color. It’s the color of blood. The color of…
No.
No.
No!
I slap the side of my head.
We’re not thinking of her.
I’m No One.
No One can’t think.
No One can’t speak.
Heavy metal throbs through the room.
It rings through my ears.
Growls.
Grates.
Promises death.
And so, I paint and paint, until a thin sheen of sweat coats my skin and my muscles ache fromexhaustion.
When the paint is gone, I leave the room, collect another man from our prison, and I slice his throat over a bucket. He doesn’t fight me. He can’t. His eyes are missing. His tongue was cut from his mouth. Oh. I cauterized the wound, so he didn’t bleed to death. That was days ago. Or was it weeks?
He is No One. Just like me.
A vessel.
A bag of flesh for my use.
His blood fills the tin bucket.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The scent of pennies fills the air, and I look down.
Hard again.
Always hard.
